


Separation

by miss_mina_murray



Series: The Unwoven Tapestry [4]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gen, briala and felassan are bros, celene kind of sucks, featured in this fic: felassan being Wrong About Lots Of Stuff, masked empire rewrite, my favorite ocs are crotchety old and elvhen, ok let's be real celene really sucks, remember that time celene literally lit one of her own cities on fire, zevran is terrifying to those who don't know him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-09 06:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11098740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_mina_murray/pseuds/miss_mina_murray
Summary: Halam'shiral burns, Orlais sees fit to eat itself alive, all while strange omens and peculiar doings are afoot.  Briala, once Empress Celene's servant and lover, now tries to navigate a world that has taken a most unusual path.





	1. Aux Armes, Citoyens

**Author's Note:**

> hey there, folks! so, here we are with a bit of an interlude between falling leviathan and the next big installment 
> 
> this is canon to masked empire right up until halam'shiral burns, and that's where our story begins--reading the first half of masked empire (or a summary) is probably useful, but not necessary

Behind them, the silhouette of Halam'shiral burned, and the smell of smoke would not leave Briala even though they were miles away by now. 

She followed Felassan deeper into the woods, but her mind was not on the trail. She could still see the glowing lines of the city, burning under the torches lit by Celene's soldiers.

She put a hand to the back of her head. Her bun had come half-undone, and she felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She wanted for a knife. 

The nobles of the Orlesian Court had banned the practice of shaving one's head to denote grief. They didn't like their servants to display their mourning. But Briala could cut her hair, at least—show to her brethren that she cared, that she knew someone had died, that--

But she had no knife.

“Felassan,” she said.

He glanced over his shoulder, violet eyes catching the light for a moment. “Yes?”

“Lend me your knife.”

He frowned slightly. “Why?”

She wasn't sure he'd understand. She had no idea what grieving was like among the Dalish. She hadn’t ever thought to ask, and he had never told her. So she simply told him “I don't have a weapon, hahren.”

He gave her a long knife from his belt. 

Briala grabbed a hank of hair in one hand and started hacking at it with the knife. After a minute, Felassan took one of her hands and stopped her. She glared at him.

“Let me, da'len,” he told her, his tone gentle. “You're too angry. You'll cut something other than hair, and then where will we be?”

She scowled, but released her hold on the knife. He took it back from her, and carefully sliced away at her hair.

“Among the Dalish, they do this too,” he said quietly. “Sometimes.”

“Not all the time?” Briala whispered, staring as her thick brown hair fell to the forest floor. She suppressed a shudder as she remembered how Celene had run her fingers through her hair, and squeezed her eyes shut, recalling Celene's voice. She had thought her hair was beautiful.

He shook his head. “No.” 

He cut her hair as close to her head as he could manage. 

“There,” he said, and gave her the knife back. “Now might we please continue?”

Briala nodded, and stuck the knife in her belt. Her head felt much lighter, and the sound of Celene's voice was no longer so close. 

The forest they walked was dark, the shadows wells of inky blackness and the air heavy and solemn, even the sky overhead seeming close and lending an air of claustrophobia. Her chest was tight and she followed Felassan very closely, for fear that she would lose her way if she lost sight of him. In contrast, Felassan moved easily, as if he had trod this path many times, his bare feet not making a sound.

“How will we find them?” Briala asked, eyes darting to the tree branches high overhead that swayed in the slight breeze.

“Oh—there are signs,” Felassan said, his tone light and airy. “Hopefully, we will find your Empress and her champion sooner, however. Before the Dalish find them.”

“What will happen if they do?”

He gave a dry smirk that was devoid of humor. “Nothing good, I can assure you, da’len.”

She stepped over a large tree root, barely missing tripping over it. “And what do you want to do with them, if we find them?”

“I? Nothing. It is up to you what we do.”

Briala shivered, and they walked on.

They found both Michel and Celene deep in the forest, in a tiny, ruined village. The village had been burned, the peasants long since fled. Celene and Michel were obvious beacons of ragged finery in the ashen village.

Celene looked worse for wear, her once-fine clothes ripped and torn, a bruise on her cheek and ashes in her blonde hair. She wore ill-fitting armor clearly taken off of someone else, and sat astride an exhausted horse. Michel was much the same, only he was not mounted on a horse, and he glared when he saw them.

“Briala!” Celene exclaimed, and slid off the horse to stand on shaking legs. She gave a halting step towards Briala, then stopped, as if remembering herself.

Briala's heart pounded in her ears. She bit the inside of her cheek and gathered herself together. “Celene,” she nodded. “Michel.”

Celene looked at her, eyes squinting against the half-light of the forest. “You cut your hair,” Celene said at length, blinking. 

Briala looked away. 

“Why?”

“You know why,” Briala muttered. 

“I don’t.”

Briala glared at her. 

“Well, this is all very well and good,” Felassan put a steadying hand on Briala’s shoulder. “But we need to move on.”

“What are you doing here?” Michel growled.

“Looking to lose ourselves in the forest,” Felassan said, a smirk playing about his mouth. “And what are you doing here?”

“Gaspard has blocked us from reaching Jader,” Celene explained. “We’d hoped to circle around.”

Briala sniffed. “Then in that case, we wish you good luck on your journey,” 

Felassan glanced at her, his expression unreadable.

“You’re not joining us?” Michel asked.

“Celene arrested me,” Briala said, her hands curling into fists. “And put me in prison, and burned down Halam’shiral. Of course I am not joining you.”

“I put down the rebellion,” Celene said. “As I was forced to do. Gaspard was spreading rumors about my softness on elves, and with the uprising--”

“And what of throwing me in prison?” Briala demanded.

Celene shook her head, made another half-step, but stopped at Briala's glare. “Had you been there, you would have suggested the option yourself. It protected both me and you from his rumors and his supporters.”

Felassan tilted his head to one side, inspecting Celene with curious violet eyes. “You will never make it to Val Royeaux on your own,” he decided, looking at their tattered clothes and their bruises. “Gaspard quite wishes to find you.”

Celene inclined her head in elegant agreement. “That he does. But even if he does not, he will return to Val Royeaux and claim it in my absence, dashing any hopes you have of winning my favor.”

Felassan laughed. “My word, Your Majesty, but you do have a way about you, yes? You wear stolen armor and ride a stolen horse, your empire is unsteady beneath you, and you still think to grant favor? You have little idea who I even am.” he looked to Briala. “What a fascinating one she is, no?”

Celene straightened her back. “The armor and the horse belonged to an Orlesian soldier, and therefore were always mine.” her head tilted up in the perfect expression of royal pride. “As for my favor—if the Dalish help me, harass Gaspard’s forces and bring me back to Val Royeux, you will know what my favor can bring.”

The smirk was still on Felassan’s face as he considered. “The Dalish will never do it,” he said. “They would rather run, or kill you. The last time they made a deal like this, or so the stories go, they won the Dales from a prophet—but lost them to your bloodline anyway.”

Celene was unmoved. “Gaspard will drown the Dales in blood to be rid of you.”

Something flashed in Felassan’s eyes. “Oh?”

“And if he doesn’t, whatever is brewing within the Chantry is sure to stampede over you, without me to help guide it.” 

“Hm,” Felassan considered. “What are you prepared to offer?”

“A chance for your leader to convince me the Dalish are worth the fits it will give my nobility if I allow them to help,” she said, and tilted her chin up. “Anything else is for your Keeper’s ears alone.”

Felassan gave her a grin. “Why, my lady, that is quite curious enough to have my attention,” he said. “I shall bring you to the Keeper—or one of them, at least. Perhaps he will even see things as I do, who is to say?” he focused his attention on Briala again. “That is, if you wish to.”

Briala sighed, weighing her options. “If you think it wise, then we shall go,” she said, her tone weary. “Gaspard has scouts, and you are leaving a trail anyone could follow. We’ll need to avoid villages and towns--”

“Oh, the Clan we are looking for has no dealings with shemlen,” Felassan said. “No fear of human spies—we won’t go near them at all.”

“On foot, or horseback?” Briala asked.

“On foot,” Felassan said. “Horses tire too easily, and eat too much, and leave too much of a trail besides.” he made a face, frowning at Celene’s horse. “And I dislike them.”

“Don’t Dalish elves have horses?” Michel asked, confused.

“No, the Dalish use halla. They are different. They are like—do you know harts?” 

“Yes.”

“A small hart, then. They eat more like a deer, or a goat, and are much better mannered than _horses_. Come along.” Felassan turned, and looked at Michel over his shoulder. “And _such_ a pleasure to see you again, Michel,” he said with a grin. 

“Wait,” Celene said. “What of my army?” she asked. “If I am not there to guide them, they will run rampant.”

Felassan nodded. “Quite true,” he said. “If you do not wish to follow us, you do not have to. Go to your army instead.”

“I would have little chance to survive here.”

“That is your own doing,” Briala said, her voice chilly. “And no one else's. Decide now.”

Celene sighed, and dismounted her horse to follow them on foot. Celene decided to leave her horse free, so it might return to civilization on its own. With a dubious glance at each other, Celene and Michel followed Briala and Felassan through the forest. 

They had been walking for a few hours when Briala decided to ask Felassan a question that had been bothering her.

“How will your people see us?” Briala wanted to know. 

Felassan looked away from her. “We will have to gain loyalty Clan by Clan. West of the Frostbacks, the Clans have little contact with each other.”

“And east of them?”

“The eastern Clans maintain a bond with each other, a holdover from the Blight, as I understand it,” Felassan explained. “But that is neither here nor there. There are no strong ties between the western Clans and the Coalition.”

“The Coalition?”

“What the Clans of the east call themselves.” 

“Hm. And will they help us?”

“Why should they?” Felassan shrugged. “There is no reason the Dalish would help a shemlen.”

“She has helped them,” Briala insisted. “How much better off are the elves of Orlais under her rule?”

“You make two mistakes, da’len,” Felassan said.

Briala scowled. “I apologize, hahren. What are they?”

“You say that she has helped the elvhen of Orlais?” he shook his head. “Untrue. All the gains made are those you have made.”

“With respect--”

“Oh, hush,” Felassan waved a hand. “You need not ascribe things you have accomplished to someone else. Without you, your empress would be no friend to elves. Where did Gaspard’s rumors come from? Even he could see it.”

“Fine—but in either case, their lives are better. If what you say is true, and it is my doing, and not Celene’s, that has improved their lives, then anyone could see that I have no influence over Gaspard. If the lives of the elvhen of Orlais are to remain well, then Celene must remain in power. I can hardly make changes if I have no influence. My work would be undone.” 

Felassan chuckled, his gaze oddly wistful. “You think like Fen’harel.” 

“How so?”

He sighed and thought for a moment. “Here is a story not often told,” he said, and Briala relaxed, easing into the familiarity of his storytelling. “There was a young noble in fair Arlathan. The Queen of Arlathan had two daughters, understand, and one was killed—a terrible tragedy, you see, for the girl was very young, not even a hundred years old.”

“And that was so young, in Arlathan.”

Felassan nodded. “Indeed it was. There was much moaning and wailing, and there was a great ceremony to commemorate her passing. All the nobility and all the peasantry and the artisans and servants and priests of the city were there. And during the ceremony, the young noble saw a beautiful lady, so fair and perfect that his heart broke. However, by the rules of the ceremony, he could not speak to her, or her family. He had no idea who she was, or who her family was. So what was he to do?”

“What _was_ he to do?” Briala asked. 

“Well, this lad was not so very clever, so he immediately took his problem to the gods—nobles are wont to do these kinds of foolish things, instead of simply trying to solve the problem themselves. He prayed to Mythal for love, to Dirtha’men for the secret of her name, and to Andruil for luck in his hunt for the woman.”

“Andruil would never have granted him that,” Briala interjected, remembering Felassan’s other stories about the gods. Andruil in particular had a vindictive streak.

“No, no, she would not have. She would have laughed, had she heard his prayer, and quite possibly hunted his lady love down herself. But, the point is that none of the gods answered him. So, being a foolish lad, he turned to Fen’harel, who honestly was probably a bit annoyed with this request, and so gave him the kind of answer that Fen’harel is wont to give. He came to the lad’s dreams that night, and can you tell me, what did he say?”

Briala could see immediately the solution. “Kill the Queen’s other daughter, then look for the woman at the second ceremony.”

“There you are,” Felassan smiled. “Of course, it would never have worked—the lad would have gotten arrested, and probably executed, and in any case during the funeral ceremony there would have been hundreds of people there, so who is to say he would have even found her at all?”

Briala considered the story, trying to see what Felassan was telling her. “What stake did Fen’harel have in all this? Why did he answer when none of the other gods did?” she asked at length. “I suppose he had a quarrel with the Queen?” 

“Oh, many quarrels. Fen’harel had quarrels with everyone.” Felassan smirked. 

“But what has that to do with me?”

“You think like him,” Felassan insisted. “The point of the story is not the noble, or the answer given, it is Fen’harel himself. You are to think, why would he care about this lad? Or the Queen, or hier daughters? Why did he answer, when none of the other gods did? And that is the trick of it. It is Fen’harel’s story, but he has hardly appeared at all. And so, you think like this, you work behind the narrative, your cause unseen and hidden. What does it matter the blood, if you reach your ends?” he shook his head. “But the Dalish do not think like that, da’len. Causes matter, and blood matters.” there was a strange bitterness to his words. 

“You said I made two mistakes,” she said. “What was the second?” 

“You think of the people as the shemlen do,” he told her. “Blood, eyes, ears, height, language—who cares where they are from, or where they are born? Elves are elves are elves. But the Dalish do not think like that either. You say that they are better off under Celene’s rule. But who are they? The Alienage elves, the Dalish? The elves of the Circles? No, no, a Dalish elf will give you a hundred reasons it does not matter who sits upon the throne.” he shook his head. “Why should they care for the cities? They do not live in them.” 

Briala was silent, and they walked quietly, side-by-side. 

After a while, a thought occurred to her. “If you are so sure that they will not help...” Briala said with a frown. “Why are we doing this at all?”

“Because perhaps they will surprise me,” Felassan said. “Or they will find the situation as amusing as I do. Who is to say? I am not always right.”

“So you hope to be wrong?”

Felassan’s expression turned melancholy. “Everyone hopes to be wrong, sometimes.” he said softly. 

Despite her exhaustion from the travel, Celene practiced her knifework any time they stopped. 

Celene was good at knifework. All nobles were at least fair hands at a weapon. They had to be, to survive the Game. Briala knew all the weapons Celene had gone through—longbow, broadsword, shortsword, hand-axe, even a warhammer, before she came to knives as her weapon of choice.

One evening, Briala watched Celene practice. Briala’s own knifework was slapdash and dirty, a peculiar combination of observed noble styles and street fighting. Celene’s was elegant, perfect, entirely noble and not very practical unless one was fighting another noble.

She went through a pattern that Celene’s old etiquette teacher had called the butterfly. She made a mistake in the pattern, a slight error that the governess would never have accepted. She went through the pattern several times, never correcting herself, and eventually Briala could no longer bear it.

“You are off on the second strike,” Briala told her, her arms folded. It was the first time she had spoken directly to Celene, and her chest felt tight.

Celene stopped and turned to face her. “I do not believe so,” Celene said, her voice calm, her daggers held loose in her grasp. “The lead hand parries the incoming thrust, and the back hand slashes over the arm to block an incoming thrust before you move into the throat. Like so:” she demonstrated. 

Briala peeled her lips from her teeth in a grimace. She still did it wrong.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps not. But ultimately, it does not matter. Life is hardly so pretty as all of that.”

“And knifework is hardly pretty, as you well know, so one mistake hardly matters. Who are you to say, in any case? You always preferred archery to knifework.”

“I have used both. Can you say the same?” Celene said nothing, so Briala pressed forward. “What if your opponent is a darkspawn, or a demon? A man with shortswords instead of blades? An Antivan who has learned other knifeworks? What if your weapon is a peasant blade from a butchery, not a silverite knife?” she shook her head. “No, things are not always as perfect as they are in the palace of Val Royeaux.”

Celene sighed and lowered her blades. “Bria...”

“Do not call me that.” Briala turned away, running a hand over her short-cropped hair. “Do not explain why. I do not care to hear it. I know why. I just...” she sighed, and looked over her shoulder, eyes forlorn. “I wish you had cared more.”

Celene’s eyes flashed. “It would have been a locked suite in the palace for a few years, nothing more!” she hissed. “It would have changed nothing.”

“Is that what you think I care about?” Briala snapped. Felassan and Michel were both looking their way, and she lowered her voice. “That is not the problem. Your hair still has ashes in it, for the love of the Maker.”

Celene shook her head. “Our empire can withstand few wars,” she said, her eyes closing in weariness. “I wanted my legacy to be the university, the beauty and culture that made us the envy of the world. Instead, the empire might fall, and I would be the Empress who ruled over while it did.”

“No,” Briala sneered. “Gaspard would never let your precious empire fall. You would be the only ousted Empress, dishonored and forgotten. Another casualty of the Game, like everything else.”

“Believe as you will,” Celene declared. “But you have the luxury of mourning the elves of Halam’shiral. Sitting on my throne, I see all the cities of the empire. If I must burn one to save the rest, I will weep, but I will light the torch!”

“I do not see you weeping now,” Briala said. “Nor do I see you sitting on your throne I do not see that burning anything has helped your empire stay whole.” she shook her head. “With your permission, Your Radiance, I will engage in that luxury of mine.”

Briala walked away, her hands shaking. At length, Celene returned to her forms, and did not follow her.

Felassan came to sit by Briala, who continued to shake. 

“Love,” he said quietly, stroking her cropped hair. “What a terrible thing, no?”

“I do not love her,” Briala hissed. 

“If you did not, da’len, she would not hurt you so much,” Felassan sounded distant and sad. “But to love a Queen is to accept something terrible.”

“You speak from experience, hahren?” Briala’s voice was soft. “I hadn’t thought the Dalish had queens.”

“No, da’len. Not my experience, at any rate.” he did not elaborate. “It will be well enough,” he told her, voice soft. “All will be well, and all manner of things will be well. In time.” 

“How are you so sure?”

“Sometimes one does not have to be sure. One merely has to hope it to be so.”

After a certain point of travel, they came to the end of the forest. 

Felassan was unhappy. “We can either skirt the villages and farms and lose time, or cross the farms as quick as we can to get to the edge of the forest,” he said, folding his arms. 

“Is it safe to be out in the open?” Celene asked.

“Not particularly.”

“I fear we have little choice,” Michel said. “We would lose a great deal of time going to the east, and in any case, there is a village across the fields where we can resupply.”

“That would have been safe enough at one time,” Felassan said with a shrug. “But that was before Gaspard was on your heels.”

In the end, they went as quick as they could through the fields, and ended up bypassing the village entirely. It took an entire two days, but they got back to the forest with minimal fuss.

It was a clear and cold evening when Felassan cornered Michel. 

Briala and Celene were on opposite ends of their camp, as far away from each other as was possible. Felassan, instead of speaking with Briala as he was normally wont to do, instead rounded upon Michel. 

“Why do you stay with her?” he asked. 

Michel narrowed his eyes. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you speak of,” he sneered. “I swore an oath.”

“An oath, yes, yes,” Felassan waved a hand. “But I see your eyes in the darkness.” a smirk flitted across his face. “They shine. Like Briala’s. Like mine.”

Michel glared at him. “What would you have of me?” he hissed. 

“Nothing. Only to know.” Felassan’s violet eyes flashed for a moment. “You abandoned your people, did you not? Why?” 

“ _You_ are not my people. _She_ is not my people. You are an idiot.”

“No, you are not my people. That much could not be clearer. You must have done it for power, no?” Felassan's voice was idle as he wondered. “A way out of the slums? Round ears and a small nose will get you far, yes?”

“Do not presume to judge me,” Michel hissed. “You speak of what you do not understand. You know nothing of the slums—my life there...” he shook his head. “The Academie gave me honor, and the peace of knowing that if I am true to it, I may die with a happy heart.”

“Honor,” Felassan chuckled. “What a precious concept. You are only true to your honor as long as your secret is kept safe. How terrifying to must be, to spend your life as something you do not believe you are.” his voice softened, a strange sorrow weighing him down. “Heroic battles, and comely maidens following you to your bed—and you enjoy none of it.”

Michel looked away. “You do not know what you speak of. I’ve enjoyed my fair share.”

“Oh, I’m sure. And while you did, you checked every word to make sure no commoner twang slipped through, yes? Hurled ‘knife-ear’ around a little too often, so everyone would know you had nothing in common with the elves?”

“And how easy it must be for you,” Michel shot back. “Walking around with your life tattooed on your face.”

Felassan laughed. “Yes, it _must_ be. For you see this and think that you see all that I am.” he shook his head, and tilted his head back to look at the stars. “Do you know what I’ve been, in my time?”

“A young Dalish elf, who ran through the forest and listened to stories?” Michel guessed. 

Felassan laughed again. “Oh, well said,” he smirked, and Michel couldn’t help but feel somehow slighted. “But you are wrong.”

“How so?”

“We do not run. We _ride_.”

“You say so, but I have never seen one of your halla,” Michel snorted.

“Why would you? The Dalish would not take kindly to the phrase ‘knife-ear.’” again, Felassan’s eyes flashed in anger, and it made Michel want to flinch.

Michel turned to look for Celene, but did not see her. He did not see Briala, either. 

“I don’t see either of them,” he said softly, trying to change the subject. 

“I do hope they aren’t fighting again,” Felassan said, a concerned pinch to his face. “It upsets Briala so...”

Michel shifted, not sure how to respond to that. 

“Or perhaps they have other things on their mind besides fighting,” Felassan sighed. “Ah, young lovers. Foolish, yes? But love does as it wills.”

“Do not be insulting,” Michel snapped.

“Insulting? Hardly. Love is never insulting. Foolish, and hard-headed, and doomed, but not insulting.”

Michel rounded on Felassan, his face red with anger. “If you believe your ward can lure the Empress--”

“ _Lure_ the Empress?” Felassan let out an incredulous laugh. “Do you really think anyone can lure the Empress into doing something she does not wish to do?”

“Why would she wish to do— _that_?”

“I have not the faintest idea. It seems a poor decision to me.” Felassan shook his head. “Truly, Briala should have more sense. To think she could even be tempted, after Celene burned down the Alienage—she needs to meet a nicer young lady, don’t you think?” he contemplated that. “Maybe a mage would do her good...” he muttered to himself.

Michel growled in frustration. “I meant Celene, the Empress of Orlais, sleeping with an _elf_!”

“Oh, shout it a bit louder, why don’t you?” Felassan rolled his eyes. “Now who’s being rude?” he shook his head. “You mean nothing but to shout ‘knife-ear’ loud enough that all the world knows the mask you wear. Look around you—who is here to care?” 

“You know nothing of Orlais,” Michel scoffed. He waved towards the forest. “Perhaps out there, you may lie with whomever you like, but in the court...” he sighed. “It is one thing to have a dalliance with a servant girl, another to take her for a lover!”

“It’s a good thing Celene and Briala cannot stand one another, then, is it not?”

“You just _said_ \--”

“So you take my counsel, now?” Felassan raised his eyebrows. “And here I thought I was simply a foolish knife-ear who listened to tales.”

Michel clenched his fists. “You are impossible,” he snapped. 

“So I’ve been told,” Felassan continued to smirk.

“I’m going to look for the Empress,” Michel declared, and turned his back on Felassan.

“Take care,” Felassan informed him. “The forest doesn’t always take so kindly to those that travel within it.”

Michel snorted, and left the clearing.

Celene and Briala were neither fighting nor lovemaking. Celene had come to speak with Briala, in the hopes they could come to an accord. 

Briala was having none of it. 

“What is it you wish me to say?” Celene demanded after being rebuffed by Briala one too many times. “That I am sorry? We both know I am sorry. It changes nothing.”

“It might help if you cared even the smallest bit,” Briala snapped.

Celene threw her hands up in the air. “If I admit to regret, you would pounce upon it and say regret does no good. If I asked you what would do good, you would say nothing. I will not twist in agony because you blame me for their deaths!”

“Blame you?” Briala gaped at her, shocked. “You _killed_ them. Who else am I to blame?”

“It was them, or it was you!” Celene snapped. “I could put down the rebellion, or execute you to quell the rumors!”

“And is that meant to make me feel better? That elves died just for me, just for your--” she hissed through her teeth. “--dalliance?”

“Then tell me, by all means, tell me what I should have done!”

“Found another way!” Briala cried. “You should have found some other way!”

“Are you truly angry at me, Bria, or are you angry at yourself for knowing in the back of your mind I did what I had to do?” 

She stepped closer, close enough to touch Briala. Briala's hands were cold. 

“I swear to you, if there had been a way that left those elves unharmed, I would have taken it.”

She reached out, her hands delicate and careful like always. There was dirt under her nails and cuts on her skin. She put her hand on Briala's shoulder. 

“How long have we been together, Bria? Do you think I never noticed you urging me to sympathy for the elves?”

Briala's stomach twisted, and she took Celene's hand by the wrist and _squeezed_. Celene let out a gasp of pain and snatched her hand back. 

“Bria--”

“Don't touch me,” Briala snarled. “I—I trusted you,” she curled her hands into fists. “I trusted you—I trusted you to make things _better_!” she shook her head. “You're no different than the rest of them. Gaspard, the chevaliers—you're all the same. Doing everything for your precious empire while real people— _my_ people—starve and die.”

“You--”

The woods gave a terrible cracking sound, and they both jumped, knives out.

“What was that?” Celene whispered.

Briala shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. 

There was another crack. 

Celene and Briala both stepped back as one. 

“I think we should go back,” Briala said.

“I--” Celene started, but was drowned out by another terrible cracking noise. 

Then a tree began to move. It raised its branches, like arms. Then slowly, terribly, it lifted a root out of the ground, as if it were a foot. 

“Oh, _c’est des conneries_ ,” Celene breathed.

“ _Absolutment_ ,” Briala nodded, in total agreement. “We need to go back. Right now.”

Celene made no argument, and the pair of them turned and ran.

“I see you have not found them,” Felassan said, as Michel returned to the campsite.

“That isn’t the problem,” Michel said, looking troubled. “I could have sworn I heard--”

He was cut off when Celene and Briala came barreling into the camp.

“Felassan!” Briala called. 

“What is it?”

“That--” Briala pointed over her shoulder at the thing following them. A massive tree, it lumbered towards them, making terrible creaking and groaning sounds as it went. 

“Oh, fenhedis,” Felassan muttered.

“What is _that_?” Michel breathed, yanking his sword from its sheath.

“A sylvan,” Felassan’s hands were alight with fire. “A tree possessed by a spirit.”

“Trees can become possessed?” Michel’s sword arm was trembling, and he, Celene, and Briala all moved back while Felassan advanced. 

“In the right circumstances, yes,” Felassan said. “Now quiet—or do you think to fell the tree with that dagger?” he looked at Michel’s sword, contemptuous. He raised his hands and threw a fireball at the sylvan.

The sylvan shrieked as it caught ablaze, and the ground under them quaked.

“Felassan!” Briala shouted, trying to keep her footing.

“I am _trying_!” Felassan snapped, and sent another fireball in the sylvan’s direction, this one white-hot. 

The sylvan let out another bellow of rage, and tried to move, but the fire ate at it. It was harder to burn than a normal tree, and kept making awful jerking movements. 

One more fire spell hit, and the sylvan fell, smoking and charred.

“Maker,” Michel breathed. Celene, Briala and Michel all stepped forward to try and get a better look, but Felassan put a hand out, forcing them back.

“What poison is the Keeper working?” Felassan muttered to himself, looking over the sylvan corpse.

“What do you mean?” Briala asked.

Felassan pursed his lips. “Well--”

There was another cracking sound, and Celene let out a cry. Felassan cursed, and lit a fire in his hands again as another sylvan came to life behind them. This one was even larger than the first, an ancient oak tree.

“Back,” Felassan said, pushing Briala behind him. “Let me--”

A flaming arrow buried itself in the sylvan, and it shrieked again, the noise piercing their ears painfully. It turned towards whoever had struck it, and another flaming arrow hit it.

Felassan hurled his own fire at the thing, and it made another horrible screeching noise.

Out of the woods came a pair of elves, each holding a bow, and each with the twining vallaslin of the Dalish on their faces. One of them called towards Felassan, who called back, and threw another ball of fire at the thing. 

More flaming arrows and more fire spells felled it, and it collapsed in a smoking heap. The hunters both approached the sylvan, the taller one prodding it with the end of her bow. Briala stared at the Dalish hunters with naked awe. Celene seemed wary, and Michel snorted in open contempt. 

Briala carefully approached one of the hunters.

“Mas serannas,” she said, stumbling a little over the words. “We owe you our lives, and--”

The Dalish ignored her, and the pair turned to Felassan. One of them spoke to Felassan in Dalish, and Briala could only catch a few words. They had a short exchange, still in that unfamiliar language, until Felassan caught Celene, Michel, and Briala watching him.

“Will you speak Common, at least out of politeness?” Felassan sighed, putting his hands on his hips.

The hunters glanced at each other.

“Felassan,” one of the hunters said, his tongue fumbling with the Common. “You've come at a very, very bad time.”

“Why?” Felassan asked lazily. 

The hunters' eyes flicked to Briala, then Celene, then Michel. “Pala,” he cursed. “You can't make it much worse than it already is.” 

Felassan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain later,” the hunter snapped. “I need to deal with these lot you’ve dragged here now.”

He muttered something in Dalish to his companion, who bound Michel and Celene’s arms. She moved towards Briala as well, but Felassan snapped at her and she moved away again. 

“Come,” the hunter said. “Quickly, now. Before you draw more sylvans here.”

“Before _we_ do--?” Michel was outraged.

“Yes, you. Now, quiet.”

“You said you would explain,” Felassan caught up with the hunter as he walked swiftly ahead, Briala close on his heels. “So, explain. And Common, for my friend here.”

The hunter rolled his eyes, but when he spoke, it was in Common. “We have Coalition elves coming in and disrupting the Keeper's work,” the hunter said in an undertone, so only Briala and Felassan could hear. “An ambassador came by after you left—interested in an alliance with us, and maybe the flat-ears in Halam'shiral.” he jerked his head in Briala's direction. Briala perked up. 

“Is that so?” Felassan asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. 

“The thing is, the ambassador found the Keeper's work, and she didn't like it,” the hunter said. “She and Thelhen had a fight, then she left. Thought we'd seen the end of her, only she came back with three more mages. Said what the Keeper was doing was dangerous...” the hunter bit his lip and shook his head. “A lot of what she said I didn't really understand,” he admitted. “She talked about Keeper Merrill and the Coalition—how what the Keeper was doing would endanger everyone.”

“Keeper Merrill?” Felassan asked.

“Oh, Creators, don't you ever _listen_?” the hunter rolled his eyes. “Keeper Merrill's the one from Kirkwall. She's the one with the--” he stumbled over himself, his eyes darting to the others. “According to the ambassador, she's their expert on Elvhenan, more than anyone else.” he sneered. “Right. But anyway, she said that what Thelhen was doing was dangerous, and the rest of the Coalition thought so too, so here we are.” the hunter spread his hands. “And we do _not_ have time for any of your nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” Felassan smirked. “Whatever could you mean?”

“Yes, _nonsense_. Mythal’s mercy, Felassan, can you stop being— _you_ for ten minutes?” the hunter shook his head. 

“I see your friends don’t like you much,” Michel muttered.

“Will ‘quiet’ not get through your thick shemlen skull?” the hunter snapped at him. “Anyway, Felassan, you’ve brought this here at a bad time. Just to warn you.”

“It doesn’t seem like any times are good,” Felassan said.

“Well,” the hunter shrugged, and said no more.


	2. Formez Vos Bataillons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my favorite ocs are the crotchety old elvhen kind tbh

When they came closer to the Dalish camp, they heard the fight before they saw it. Two people screaming at each other in Dalish, very loudly.

Felassan wrinkled his nose. “That’s certainly not good,” he said.

“What is it?” Briala asked. 

“They're doing magic...” 

“And screaming at each other,” Michel muttered.

“Oh, well, that too,” Felassan agreed.

“They've been at it for a while,” the hunter sighed. “Come on.” they walked through the Dalish camp, to the far end, where a tall elvhen man with long, steel-gray hair stood at the very edge of the camp, having a furious exchange with a hooded woman. They were at full pitch, shouting at each other in Dalish too fast to understand.

“Keeper!” the hunter exclaimed. 

“ _What_?” the man whirled around to stare at them.

“Felassan's back!”

The Keeper rolled his eyes. “Oh, well, what a joy that is!” 

“Who's back?” the woman peered at Felassan. “What are you playing at, Thelhen?”

“Not your concern!” the Keeper growled at the woman. "You--go back! This isn't your business!" 

"Fine," the woman snapped. "We'll be back, Thelhen, understand?"

"Fine," Thelhen hissed back. "If you come past the camp line, I'll freeze you where you stand, understand?" 

"Oh, I understand, all right," the woman said, then turned on her heel and vanished into the woods.

“And what, in the name of all that is good and holy, is going on here?” Felassan asked, staring after where the woman had gone.

“Cursed Coalition interlopers,” the Keeper snarled. He turned and surveyed Felassan’s group. “Now,” he said, hands on hips. “What nonsense is it you’ve brought to my doorstep?” he looked Celene, Briala, and Michel over. “Anaris’ balls, what is this?” 

“Empress Celene, her champion Michel, and Briala, of Halam’shiral,” Felassan said, looking incredibly amused at the goings-on.

The Keeper stared at them for a long moment, before he turned his attention back to Felassan and said “Why did you bring them here?”

“You needed to meet new people.”

Thelhen blinked. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Did I give anyone the impression I had time for any of...this?” he waved his hands at Celene and company. 

“The elves in the cities are suffering, Hahren,” Briala said, stepping forward. “If you could lend your assistance--”

“Not my problem,” Thelhen snapped. “Do you know what my problem is? First off, that woman,” he gestured towards the forest. “And second off, the damned Templars and the cursed army trampling up and down the entire bloody countryside—or have you not noticed?” 

Briala blinked. “But—we're your people,” she said. “Surely you care for others of your own kind, enough to hear our grievances?”

“Da'len, we don’t have any kin in the cities,” Thelhen said, his expression more sorrowful than angry now. “And in any case, I have other things on my mind right now.” 

Briala felt stricken, and didn’t say anything else. Her chest was tight. 

“Such as pointless arguments?” Michel muttered.

“Did someone ask you for your opinion, shemlen?” Thelhen said. “Because I don't think they did. Creators, I’d rather hear whatever _she’s_ on about than whatever _you_ have to say,” he jerked his head towards Briala, then turned his back on them, and snapped something to the hunters.

Felassan stepped forward, and he and the Keeper argued in Dalish for some time, Thelhen waving his arms around frantically.

Finally, Felassan and the Keeper separated, and Felassan returned to Briala.

“What’s going on?” Briala asked. 

Felassan sighed. “This is going to be a bit more complicated than anticipated,” he confessed. 

“How so?” Celene asked. 

“I hadn’t expected—whoever that is,” he said, gesturing towards the woods. 

“And who is it?”

“A woman from Ferelden,” he said, pursing his lips. 

“Why is she here?”

“I’m not sure,” Felassan said. “I can’t know everything, can I?”

Celene and Michel were confined to one of the aravels, where several hunters guarded them. Briala and Felassan were given free roam of the camp.

Briala watched the Dalish, her gut churning. These people had never known what it was to live in cities, under the bootheel of Orlais. She saw children playing freely, people having long conversations in Dalish, a pregnant woman with a healthy glow and even two people openly practicing magic. 

They surely didn’t know what it was to have your ear twisted for saying your full name, to be mocked for even mentioning Arlathan. To have governesses and professors all speak of the savagery of the elves, how _gracious_ the humans are to uplift them from their heathen ways--

Surely they never knew what it was like to have their city burned. The Dales were lost long ago, and they still clung to their lost land without giving any consideration to the living.

Briala felt sick as she watched. No one paid much attention to her, except for an odd moment where the pregnant woman approached her and gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder but said nothing. 

Felassan came to her side.

“Come on,” Felassan said, taking her arm. 

“What is it?” Briala asked.

“I want to see this ambassador woman for myself, and you are coming with me.”

“Why bother?” Briala muttered, glaring at a passing couple who glared right back. “She'll say I'm not her people.” 

“Yes, probably,” Felassan said. “But if I go by myself and she kills me, that won't be very fun for anyone.”

Briala followed Felassan into the forest. “You told me, but I didn’t really think...” she trailed off.

“I know. You didn’t want to believe me, da’len. It’s alright. Come, we can see what this business is all about. Perhaps we’ll be surprised.”

Briala didn’t say anything.

They came to the woods, to the edge of a heavy magical ward.

“Hello?” Felassan called, prodding the ward with one hand and receiving a stinging shock for his trouble.

An elvhen woman stepped out of the shadows. 

“Who are you?” the woman snapped. She had long silver hair and piercing blue eyes, her vallaslin pale blue and twining over her forehead and her cheeks.

“I am Felassan, and this is Briala,” Felassan said. “And yourself?”

The woman raised her eyebrows as he introduced himself. “I am Ambassador Andoriel Eilhana Panalanvinte, representative of the Coalition and of Clan Panalanvinte,” she told him. “What are you doing here? Thelhen finally come to his senses?”

“Hardly,” Felassan said. “I merely wanted to ask what you were doing here. The Keeper was not very forthcoming.”

“You know what your Keeper's been up do?” Andoriel demanded.

“A great many things, I should assume.”

Andoriel scoffed and let down the magical ward, gesturing for Briala and Felassan to come within its bounds.

“Summoning a demon to reactivate the eluvian network!” Andoriel threw up her hands. “I _told_ him Keeper Merrill and the Coalition have got it under control, that we can't just turn all of them on at once, it takes time, but it turns out he up and summons Imshael!” 

Felassan stared at her, looking at a loss for words for the first time Briala had ever known. “You have reactivated the eluvians?” he asked after a minute.

“Yes,” Andoriel said. “That's one of the reasons we're trying to contact elves of the west! We need mages, we need archaeologists--”

“Wait, wait, slower, please,” Felassan held up his hands. “How did you--?”

“Keeper Merrill did it,” Andoriel said. “Damn, boy, where have you been?”

“Elves of the west,” Briala said. “The Dalish elves?”

“Well, them, and we were hoping to try and talk to the Hahrens at Val Royeaux and Halam'shiral,” Andoriel said with a glance at Briala. “Not too much luck so far, though.” 

“Wait—you actually _want_ to speak to us?” she and Felassan looked at each other, Felassan still looking startled.

“Are you from an Alienage, da'len?” Andoriel asked. “Well, that's a stroke of luck. We've been having a terrible time just trying to travel there, damn Chavaliers keep shooting at our people any time they spot someone with tattoos--”

“They don't do that to me,” Felassan said. 

“Then you need to show us how to get in,” Andoriel insisted. “We've tried—haven't so much as gotten close, and the local Dalish aren't any help at all. If they don't ignore us, they start picking fights over who's more Dalish, bloody infuriating is what it is.”

“Wait—you've been _trying_ to talk to us?” Briala asked, with a glare at Felassan.

“Only recently,” Andoriel clarified. “Been trying to reach the western Clans first, get a foothold and some accurate maps.” she looked between the two of them. “Why?”

Briala gaped. “You don't have—Felassan, I gave you--”

“I passed all your information to Thelhen,” Felassan said. “I had no idea that any Coalition members were in the country.” he turned to Andoriel. “Briala wants Clan Virnehn to back Empress Celene,” he explained. “There's a power struggle for the throne, and Briala feels--”

“You _what_?” Andoriel exclaimed. She turned to Briala. “Alright, first off—never, _ever_ ask a Dalish Clan to back an Orlesian noble. _Ever_.”

“But,” Briala's head spun. “Celene being in power would help--” her lip curled. “But you don't think us 'flat-ears' are your people, do you?”

“Oh, Anaris' balls,” Andoriel cursed. “That's not the problem! And don't listen to a word that idiot Thelhen says—you're just as much of the People as I am. I mean, _really_. The problem is that, well, there’s an awful lot of bad blood between the Dalish and the Orlesians.”

“But Celene could help,” Briala insisted.

“I'm sure you believe that, but historically, that's not correct,” Andoriel said. “Anyway, look, we can't go making alliances right this second in any case, not with that damn demon on the loose—we need to take care of it before it does something like murder us all.”

“That is a problem,” Felassan said. 

“Demon? He summoned a demon?” Briala asked, looking from Andoriel to Felassan.

Andoriel threw her hands up. “That idiot Thelhen somehow got it into his head that a demon would know how to fix the local eluvian network—I tell him, it won’t, because the thing’s a bloody liar, he’d be better off with blood magic, but does he listen to me? No, because I’m from over the mountains, and apparently that makes me not good enough to listen to!” she growled and kicked at the ground. “Idiot!”

“Ah,” Felassan nodded in understanding. “That's why there are so many sylvans nearby.”

Andoriel nodded. “You run into those, too?”

“Yes, two of them.”

“Mm, makes sense—Thelhen made the Veil so unstable it's almost as bad as the nastier parts of the Brecelian. Bloody unhealthy is what it is.”

“Oh,” Briala felt mildly dizzy. “What are you trying to do?”

“Get close enough to the dratted thing to banish it,” Andoriel said. “Or at least piss it off enough to leave. Thelhen doesn't want us anywhere near it, that's why he's been keeping us out.” she peered at Briala. “Anyway—what is this business with the Empress?” she asked. “Ir abelas, I haven’t been keeping up with Orlesian politics. Barely any news out here. What’s happened?”

“Grand Duke Gaspard is trying to oust Celene from the throne,” Briala explained. “We brought her here--”

“Wait a blasted minute, the Empress of Orlais is _here_?” Andoriel exclaimed. 

“Yes…?”

“And you lot just ran off and _left her_?”

“She’ll be safe enough for the moment,” Felassan said. “But not for long.”

“I damn well say not for very bloody long! Andruil’s blessed tits, you get that Empress of yours out here right now, before one of Thelhen’s idiots throws her off a cliff or something!” Andoriel shook her head. “Go on, get!” she gestured for Felassan to go, and he nodded and did so with an amused smile. What was amusing about the situation, Briala wasn’t quite sure. 

Briala turned to follow, but Andoriel grabbed her shoulder. “Not you, da’len,” she said. “You stay put. Don’t want any more of you out of my sight than have to be.” 

Andoriel guided Briala to sit down at her camp.

“That’s Mala, Ovra, and Varras, by the way,” Andoriel said, pointing to three elves who were busy with various spellworks. Mala, a tall dark woman who was close enough to hear, spared Briala a smile. The other two, a man and a woman, were too far away and too deep into their spellwork to pay any mind.

“What are they doing?” Briala asked.

“Mala is doing our wards, Ovra is doing listening and watching spells, and Varras is trying to see if he can work out anything about that demon at our distance.” Andoriel said. “Now, da’len, tell me about this Alienage of yours.”

“I’m not from an Alienage, I’m from Halam’shiral,” Briala said. “And it is burning.”

Andoriel stared at her. Mala also stopped in the middle of her spellwork to stare.

“Oh, da’len, what happened?” Andoriel put a hand to her mouth. 

Briala looked away. “There was a rebellion,” she said, and rubbed the back of her head, feeling her close-cropped hair. “Celene—the Empress—put it down.” 

Mala and Andoriel exchanged a look. Andoriel nodded at Mala, who quickly went to Varras and Ovra and interrupted their works, speaking quietly to them.

“This Celene—the one you wish to have the throne?” Andoriel looked at Briala, her gaze intense. 

Briala nodded. “If Celene is bad, Gaspard will be worse,” she said. “He cares nothing for the elves.”

“But this Celene burnt down your city! She burnt Halam’shiral!” Andoriel shook her head. “Creators—I can only imagine what would happen if King Alistair...” she cut herself off.   
“Do you truly have no other options?”

“None. While the Chantry is in such a precarious position, they need a firm hand to guide them and prevent civil war.”

“There’s no doubt of that,” Andoriel said with a grim expression. “We’re in some contact with the Chantry as well, and believe you me, I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

“You are in contact with the Chantry?” Briala was surprised. “But I never heard of--”

“It is a connection formed with our alliance with the Wardens,” Andoriel explained. “Tenuous, but still there.”

“You maintain a Warden alliance?”

“Of course.” Andoriel peered at Briala sidelong. “Should we not?”

Briala knew, just as everyone else in Orlais, that the Chantry was no friend to the Wardens.

“But the Seekers...” Briala shook her head. “Never mind. This is part of the problem, I suppose. But before we can focus on the Chantry, we need to prevent Gaspard from taking the throne. It will be worse for all of us if he does.”

“Curse it, I wish we had more information!” Andoriel exclaimed, getting to her feet. “Our Chantry sources can only tell us so much, and only wish to tell us so much—we have no good sources within the Orlesian court. I have no way to verify what you are telling me! We didn’t even hear of the problems in Halam’shiral...” she shook her head. “We need to take this to a higher authority than myself.”

“A higher authority?” Briala leaned forward. “Like who?”

“We could see what Queen Aeducan has to say on this,” Andoriel said. “There’s a Deep Roads entrance not a week away, it’s how we got here in the first place. We could beg an audience with the Queen and the Prince-Consort, and the Coalition is meeting soon—you could meet with them,” she nodded at Briala.

“The Queen of Orzammar?” Briala frowned. This was an avenue she had not considered. “What stake would she have in this?”

“She is our ally, and a friend to all elvhen,” Andoriel explained. “You must have heard that the Prince-Consort is an elf.”

Briala had heard something of the sort. “Yes,” she said slowly. “There were many nobles chattering about it for weeks. It diminished trade with Orzammar—no one approved of a monarch who would marry an elf.”

“Hm,” Andoriel sniffed in disapproval. “Well, if you are a friend to us, Queen Aeducan is a friend to you.”

“I am...elvhen enough for you?” Thelhen’s words still stung her.

“Of course, da’len!” Andoriel took Briala’s hands. “Don’t let that old bear Thelhen get to you. Not all Clans are the same. You may not be Dalish, but you are—you are family. We of the east learned to stand together during the Blight. We will not abandon you now.” 

Briala looked into Andoriel’s dark eyes, and felt a tightness in her throat. 

“You truly mean that?”

Andoriel smiled at her. She quickly reached out and brushed a hand along the side of Briala’s head, stroking her short hair. “Oh, da’len. Of course.”

Felassan hurried back to the camp, where Celene and Michel were being watched by hunters. Thelhen was still growling angrily, pacing back and forth, and crackling with excess magical energy. Oddly, his First, Mihris, was nowhere to be seen. 

Felassan dodged Thelhen and went to the young hunters guarding Celene and Michel.

“Here now,” Felassan told them, switching from Common to Dalish. “They are in my charge—let me watch them.”

“Where’s your flat-ear friend?” asked one of the hunters, a young woman with the curling vallaslin of Dirth’a’men across her cheeks. 

“She does not want to guard them,” Felassan said. “She does not like these shemlen any more than you do. They hurt her family.”

“Oh, poor dear,” the young woman said, a sympathetic grimace crossing her face. “Well, I suppose that’s what you get for living with shemlen.” she shrugged, and she and the other hunter took off.

Celene and Michel both looked distinctly ruffled and unsettled. They stared at Felassan as he approached.

“What are you doing?” Michel asked.

“I am freeing you,” Felassan said with a grin, and went to work on their bindings. 

“Where is Briala?” Celene wanted to know.

“With our new allies.”

“And who are they?”

“It seems as if we have another option on our hands,” Felassan said, his grin widening. “Now come—unless you wish to stay imprisoned by this lot?”  
]  
“I suppose not,” Celene said.

“Very good.” 

“Andoriel!” Mala called from the wards. “Felassan’s returned!”

Andoriel and Briala turned to see Felassan coming towards them, Celene and Michel in tow. 

“I have retrieved them,” Felassan said. “Now, Ambassador—what is your plan?”

“Who is this?” Michel wanted to know, glaring around at the ambassador and the mages. 

“I am Ambassador Andoriel Eilhana Panalanvinte, of Clan Panalanvinte, here on behalf of the Dalish Coalition,” Andoriel said. “Mala, Varras and Ovra are all of different Clans, here to assist me.”

“And what are you here to do?” Celene asked. 

“I was attempting to get an alliance with Clan Virnehn, but when I discovered what the Keeper was doing...” she shook her head. “I need to take care of that demon they’ve summoned.”

“Demon?” Michel exclaimed.

“Yes, yes, a demon,” Andoriel waved her hand. She peered at Michel. “Briala, da’len, you didn’t tell me one of your fellows was here,” she said.

“What?” Michel spluttered. 

“He is the Empress’ Champion, Ambassador.” Briala said.

“Champion?” Andoriel looked blank. “But I thought half-elvhen couldn’t join the Orlesian military.”

Celene raised her eyebrows, while Michel continued to sputter. 

“That was supposed to be a secret,” Felassan said, his violet eyes dancing.

“Hmph,” Andoriel shook her head. “Well, my lad, if you mean to go about elvhen, you need to know that that isn’t a secret well kept,” she informed Michel loftily. 

“How did you--” Michel stammered. “I—how--”

“Well, da’len, your eyes shine, don’t they?” Andoriel said with a dismissive wave. “Now, we need to figure out how to deal with that demon. Everything else can come later.”

“But--” Michel and Celene exchanged a look, Michel looking frantic, Celene curious. 

“What of this demon?” Briala asked. “What do you know of it?”

“It isn’t an ordinary thing,” Andoriel explained. “It’s a Forbidden One.”

“A Forbidden One?” Celene asked. “I—have heard references to such creatures, but I am not familiar...”

“Four very powerful, very old demons,” Andoriel said. “I suppose Thelhen found Imshael somewhere deep in the Fade, and Imshael convinced him he could help him.” Andoriel shook his head. “Fool man. He should know better.”

“How do you mean to get rid of him?”

Andoriel clucked her tongue. “Well, with luck, we might be able to get him to bugger off on his own. He can’t be happy to be trapped in a summoning circle.”

“Unless that was his plan all along,” Felassan suggested, eyes narrowed in thought.

Andoriel sighed. “Aye, unless that.” 

“How would we get rid of him if he doesn’t want to leave?” Briala asked. “How powerful is he?”

“Well, it’s possible the summoning circle is affecting him in an adverse way,” Andoriel said, rolling her shoulders back. “It might be making him weaker, or more aggressive. Breaking it may make him more powerful, or it might make him more docile. No way to know for sure unless I get a close look at the thing.” 

“Why would it make him more docile to break the circle?” Celene asked. She was always fascinated by magic, even though she understood very little of it, having none of her own. 

“Summoning spirits can damage them,” Felassan said. “Even demons can be made more aggressive and violent if pulled through the Veil too sharply. If the circle is broken, there’s a chance that Imshael will be less disposed towards violence, because the circle is no longer conflicting with his spirit nature. But, of course, that all depends on what his nature is, and what Thelhen wants him to do.”

“Exactly,” Andoriel nodded. “Forbidden Ones aren’t like ordinary spirits and demons. Others correspond with emotions However, Forbidden Ones are funny, in that they act more like people in the physical world, encompassing a wider range of emotions. There’s a theory that they once _were_ physical people, powerful mages who somehow bound their essence to spirits. So the situation is a little delicate.”

“What do we do?” Briala asked. “You still haven’t told us a plan.”

“I want to get close to the summoning circle before I do anything,” Andoriel said. “But Thelhen’s been keeping me away. Once I get a look at the thing, we can decide what to do from then on.” 

“How are we to get past the guards?” Celene asked.

“I’d been hoping the lad here might help with that,” Andoriel thumped Felassan’s shoulder. “You're one of Thelhen’s, yes?”

“Clan Virnehn is not my birth Clan,” Felassan said. “But they know me, yes.” 

Andoriel gave him a funny look. “Right. So, you might be able to talk some sense into Thelhen.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

“You can also tell me how to get past him without fighting him head-on.”

Felassan grinned. “Now that is something I can do.”

Felassan returned to the Dalish camp, to see one very specific person. He found Mihris, the First to Thelhen, sitting on the branch of a tree, high above the ground, her face pinched and worried. She was very far away from the rest of the Clan, which was odd. He looked up at her.

“Mihris.”

Mihris startled and looked down at him. “Oh! Felassan. Hello. I thought you’d left. Thelhen was angry you’d taken the shemlen.”

Felassan shook his head. “No. I went to see the Ambassador.”

“With the shemlen, too?”

“Yes.”

Mihris wrinkled her nose. “Why?”

“Come down, and I may tell you.”

Mihris sighed and shimmied down the tree. “What is it? Don’t tell me it’s more foolishness with shemlen and flat-ears...” 

Felassan frowned at her phrasing, but shook his head. “It’s about this demon Thelhen has summoned,” he said. 

“Oh,” Mihris looked away from him. “Of course.”

Felassan peered at her. “What do you think of it?”

Mihris shrugged and avoided his gaze. “It said it could help us.”

“You know demons lie.” this was not always the case, in Felassan’s experience, but it was something Mihris knew well.

“Yes, but...” Mihris bit her lip and finally looked at Felassan. “Isn’t it worth it? For—for even a small piece of the past?”

“There’s other things to look to, da’len,” Felassan’s expression was unfathomably sad for a moment, before he collected himself. “Do you really agree with what Thelhen is doing?” Felassan asked. “Summoning a Forbidden One? You must know the danger this puts your Clan in.”

Mihris’ lip curled. “I know,” she said. “Thelhen says the rewards outweigh the risks, but...” she trailed off.

“But what?” he urged.

“But I don’t know,” she admitted. “That Ambassador woman said that someone had already restored an eluvian—that she could show us if Thelhen would just stop and listen.”

“That’s what she told me, too.”

“Do you believe her?”

Felassan paused. “I believe she is right when she says she can help.” 

“And how does she want to help? So far, she’s just shouted at the Keeper and fought with us.” Mihris folded her arms.

“She wants to get closer to the circle you have kept the demon inside, to see how dangerous it is.” Felassan toyed with the end of his braid. 

Mihris still looked very dubious. “What if she’s wrong?” she asked. “What if she’s lying about the eluvians? What if she just wants ours?”

“Mihris, she is as Dalish as you are,” he said, exasperated. “She is no Templar or Chevalier to be mistrusted so. She isn’t even a city elf. She is one of your family, is she not?”

Mihris narrowed her eyes at him. “’Your’ family?”

“Ours, yours, whichever. Mihris, please. All she wants is to look. She wants to help—she cares for the safety of your Clan, for all the People.”

Mihris paused for a long moment, then heaved a sigh. “Alright,” she said. “I can take you there.”

Felassan grinned. “Thank you, da’len.”

“Don’t call me that,” she chided him. “You can’t be much older than me.”

“Oh, you would be surprised. Quickly, now. Time runs short.” 

Mihris got Andoriel and Felassan past the guards of the circle with ease. Andoriel’s mage friends kept Thelhen busy, so he was distracted, and Mihris got rid of the other hunters. Briala tagged along with Felassan, and Mihris had protested at first, but Felassan cited the use of a non-magical fighter in warding off demons. Mihris had been skeptical, calling Briala a flat-ear hardly better than a shemlen, but when Andoriel told her off, she had agreed. Celene and Michel stayed behind, as they would draw much more attention than was desired.

The circle was about a half-mile away from the camp, in a clearing surrounded by huge, ancient trees. 

In the center of the circle stood a man.

At least, he appeared like a man. His form wavered strangely, as if in a heat haze. He wore a long, feathered coat, and had blond hair that reached his shoulders. Briala stared at him, fascinated, and found he didn't quite come into focus for her. 

He grinned as he looked at them.

“Well,” he said. “Isn’t this a surprise?”

Andoriel got to work examining the circle, kneeling down to peer at the symbols painted on the ground. The symbols gleamed with magic, and she hummed in thought as she looked at them.

“And who are you?” Imshael asked her, tilting his head to stare down at her. “Perhaps that ambassador I’ve been hearing so much about? My, my, you just might be.”

“These are simple binding spells,” Andoriel said, ignoring Imshael. “There doesn’t appear to be a conflict with his nature, so the possibility of violence won’t change.”

Imshael folded his arms. “Violence? My word, girl, but you mortals are alarmist, aren’t you?” 

“How do you want to get rid of him?” Felassan asked, glancing from Imshael to the circle. 

“Get rid of me?” Imshael pressed a hand to his chest, offended. “And after all I have promised you! Mihris, tell these people what a help I’ve been.”

“You haven’t helped anything yet,” Mihris informed him with a slight frown. “Just stood there and told us things. Demons lie.”

“I’m no demon,” a smirk toyed at the corners of his mouth. “I’m a choice spirit.”

Felassan snorted.

Imshael’s eyes alighted on Felassan, tilting his head to one side and looking Felassan up and down. “You disagree?”

“A Forbidden One, a simple choice spirit? Hardly.” 

Imshael rolled his eyes. “And you would know, wouldn’t you?” he suddenly smiled, lips pulling away from his teeth in a startlingly predatory fashion that was at odds with his human appearance. “Ah, but _you_ absolutely would know.”

“What would it take for you to leave voluntarily?” Andoriel asked, putting her hands on her hips. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Imshael cradled his chin in his hands. “I rather want to be set free, if it’s all the same to you.” 

“Why can’t you just free yourself?”

“You were just looking at the summoning circle, weren’t you? You should be able to tell.”

“Thelhen must have weakened him,” Felassan said, staring down at the circle. “Pulling him through the Veil. Clever...”

“Yes, yes, the Keeper is _ever_ so clever,” Imshael waved a hand. “Now, if you simply want me to leave—well, I suppose I could. I’m getting the feeling that something terribly exciting is going on, and I can’t see it very well from where I’m standing.” 

Andoriel tapped her lip. “How are we to get rid of him?” she asked. “I suppose we could just set him free and see if he leaves on his own, but I’m not sure how much I like that idea.”

“Why don’t I tell you something marvelous, in exchange for my freedom?” Imshael gave them a grin. “Tell me, what do you know of eluvians?”

“We already have those,” Andoriel said, her tone brusque. 

“What?” Imshael looked surprised for a moment. 

“Maybe we could kill him?” Briala suggested. “How does one kill a demon?”

“Enough force can do it, but we’d have to have enough force in the first place,” Andoriel said. “And he might be too much for us unbound. He’s hardly a normal demon.”

“Excuse me, did I hear you say you already had an eluvian?” Imshael broke in.

“What business is it of yours?” Andoriel asked. “Either way, you’re a spirit, or a demon—you’re hardly in a position to make an eluvian work. You need a physical one as well as the connection to the Fade.”

Imshael stared at her. He seemed speechless. 

“What do you think, Mihris?” Andoriel asked, turning to her. “How did Thelhen summon him?” 

“Leave it to elves to ruin bloody _everything_!” Imshael exclaimed suddenly, and they all looked at him. “Can you lot not make up your minds? First the Keeper wants all the secrets of Elvhenan, and now you come swanning in saying you’ve already _got_ them?” he threw up his hands. “What is a choice spirit supposed to make of that?” 

“We don’t have time for this,” Briala said. “We need to make a decision, and soon.” 

“Here’s a decision,” Imshael huffed. “Let me out of this dratted circle, and I’ll find someone else to pick on. This is ridiculous.” he rolled his eyes. “You try and have some fun, and someone comes in and ruins it for you. Honestly...”

Mihris looked up. “Fun?” she hissed, staring at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, of course I have _a_ way to make _some_ eluvians in the local network activate,” Imshael waved a hand. “But it’s just a patch job—just one keystone and one little password. I thought it would be funny to tell you all about it and watch you fall all over yourselves trying to make it work.”

“You _what_?” Mihris growled, stepping towards the circle. 

“Mihris...” Andoriel cautioned her, putting out an arm. “He’s trying to bait you.”

Mihris ignored Andoriel and pushed past her to stand just on the edge of the circle. “You thought it fun to toy with us? We have been trying--” Mihris choked. She shook her head and turned away. “Kill it,” she told Andoriel. “Find a way to kill it.” she cursed in Dalish to herself. “I knew it. I _knew_ summoning a blasted demon would be a bad idea...”

“Perhaps there is a way to turn the circle from trapping to killing,” Felassan leaned down and examined the runes that held the circle closed. “Ah—here we are.” 

Andoriel peered over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s an old trick of mine,” Felassan said, altering some of the ruins while Imshael watched, looking worried. 

“Oh, really,” Imshael huffed. “You are a bloody nuisance, you know that?” 

“Another one here, and—there we are,” Felassan finished and straightened up.

All was quiet for a moment, before everything inside the circle burst into flames. 

“Go and ruin it then, why don’t you?” Imshael shouted, before the flames went out, and there was nothing more remaining. 

“Is he dead?” Briala asked.

“Who is to say?” Felassan looked at the circle. “In any case, he is gone.”

“What was that you did?” Andoriel asked.

“A quick method of dispelling or killing a trapped spirit—marvelous for any time you wish to disrupt the spell of someone you’re annoyed with.”

Andoriel stared at him, then at the circle, then opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Thelhen bursting into the clearing. He was accompanied by several hunters, and they all gaped at the empty circle.

“Do you know what you've done?” Thelhen snarled, turning on Andoriel.

“Saved your Clan's hide, is what,” Andoriel said, eyeing the spot where Imshael had been standing. 

Thelhen stalked towards Andoriel, but Mihris was suddenly between them, her staff out. 

“Keeper!” Mihris snapped.

“Mihris...” Thelhen breathed, looking at her with an expression of dawning horror.

Mihris straightened her back. “What you are doing is wrong, Keeper,” she said, her voice loud enough to be carried far. “This is not the way to restore what was. It was _wrong_. That demon was lying to us—toying with us!”

The other elves began to murmur amongst themselves. 

“You put the Clan in danger,” Mihris said, pointing an accusing finger at Thelhen. “If we had been hurt or killed, it would have been your fault, and nothing would have been gained from it.”

“The eluvians--”

“It was a lie,” Mihris voice was cold. She shook her head. “I revoke your title. You are no longer the Keeper.” 

There was a shocked silence, then Thelhen’s face contorted in rage. “You cannot do that,” he said. 

“I have the right!” Mihris snapped over him. “You have put our Clan in danger! You are no longer fit to be Keeper!”

Andoriel put a hand on Mihris’ shoulder. “She’s right,” she said. “You endangered your Clan. She is perfectly within her rights to remove you.”

“But...” Thelhen looked around. His hunters looked at each other, then Mihris. 

“Mihris...” one of the hunters said. “You’re so sure?”

“Absolutely,” Mihris said. “It said as much. It wanted to toy with our Clan, not help us. And it being here is Thelhen’s fault.”

The hunters all turned to glare at Thelhen.

“I was doing what was best!” he raised his hands.

“No, you were doing what you _thought_ was best,” one of the hunters snapped. “Mihris—what do we do with him?”

Mihris looked a little surprised, then regained her composure. “I’m—not sure,” she said. “But I don’t want anyone listening to him anymore. We need to take the Clan away from here.”

They locked Thelhen in one of the aravels while they decided what to do with him. Mihris gathered the Clan together, and they had a meeting. Felassan was at the meeting, but Andoriel, Briala, Celene and Michel went back to Andoriel’s camp. 

“Well, that was cleared up rather nicely, if I do say so myself,” Andoriel said. 

“What’s going to happen now?” Briala asked her. 

“I’m not sure,” Andoriel admitted. “I’d like to have another word with Mihris, and then your friend Felassan.”

“Why do you care about what he says?” Celene asked. 

“Because he cares about what _you_ have to say, Majesty,” Andoriel said, regarding Celene with a cool gaze. “Any Dalish elf who does that is interesting, to say the least.”

“Do you believe the Dalish will aid us?” Celene asked.

“One Clan is not all Dalish. if you wish to gain Dalish alliance, you might first learn the difference between a single Clan and our entire population.” Andoriel’s tone grew more frosty. “And Clan Virnehn? Almost certainly not.”

“I see,” Celene said, pursing her lips.

“What then?” Briala asked. 

Andoriel sighed. “As I said, I have my own errand to complete,” she explained. “I still wish to speak with Keeper Mihris, and then I need to return to Orzammar.”

“Orzammar?” Michel raised his eyebrows. “What business would you have there?”

“How did you think I came over the Frostbacks?” Andoriel asked. “It wasn’t taking the trails over them, I can tell you that.”

“I see,” Michel said, blinking.

“In any case, if you return to Orzammar with me, I am sure Queen Aeducan would be able to offer her help,” Andoriel said.

“Do you truly believe so?” Celene asked, surprised. “I had not considered that.”

Andoriel nodded. “You are not in a quarrel with her, and if you ask her for sanctuary, she would likely give it.”


	3. Marchons, Marchons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess what married couple makes a return this chapter? hint; last time we saw them, they weren't married

Back in the camp of Clan Virnehn, the meeting was coming to a close. Despite Felassan urging them to ally with the Coalition, they had decided to move on, to try and lose themselves more thoroughly in the forest. They had absolutely no desire to become swept up in the larger politics of Thedas, and only wished to be left in peace with their researches and their private lives. 

When the meeting was concluded, Mihris pulled Felassan away from the others to speak privately.

“Felassan, do you wish to come with us?” Mihris asked. “You are free to do so, you know. You could leave behind all that— _involvement_ with Orlais and the Empress and everything.” 

Felassan shook his head. “I have other work that must be done,” he said. 

“Are you sure?” her brow was knit in concern. “It would be peaceful. Or we'd try to make it peaceful. No good comes from putting yourself into their wars.”

He looked at her and sighed. “You cannot ignore the larger world forever,” he chided her. “It isn't peace, it's avoidance. The Coalition could help you, I have no doubt. And it is foolish to pay your city cousins such small regard.”

Mihris closed her eyes. “Felassan, can you sing nothing but that old tune?”

“I will sing it until you listen.” he told her. 

“All we want is to be left alone,” she told him. “We agreed—all of Thelhen’s grand plans, we didn’t even want to complete those, not really. We just want to be left in peace.”

“You can’t hide forever,” Felassan urged her, eyes brimming with a strange pain that Mihris couldn’t place. “The world will find you.”

“Felassan, I _know_ ,” Mihris told him, her tone gentle. “I know what you believe. I know you want us to move on, and I know you think that what we want and what we believe is foolish.”

“I don’t--”

“Felassan.” 

He quieted at her tone. 

She put her hand on his shoulder. “I know you think you’re smarter than us—ah, ah, don’t deny it, it’s the truth!” she cut him off when he opened his mouth. “And I know we don’t see eye to eye on, well, a lot of things. I know you’d drag us out into that dratted world if you could.”

“I would,” he admitted. “Why do you insist on staying?”

“You say you want our people to have the freedom to choose, Felassan,” she told him. “That’s why you go to the cities, isn’t it? You want to try and force people to see other paths.”

“That isn’t quite what I do,” he said. 

“But it’s the choosing that’s important, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Then, Felassan, listen to me when I say, that this is what the Clan chooses. We just want to be left _alone_ , in peace.”

“I--” he looked at her, and she stared back at him. Her hand had not moved from his shoulder. “Oh, da’len,” he said, and for a moment he looked utterly heartbroken, before he regained his composure. “Alright,” he said. “Do as you will.”

“I’m so glad we have your approval,” Mihris said, her tone dry.

Felassan chuckled. “I shall leave you with some parting advice, then; don’t summon any more demons, and pay more mind to your city cousins. They are stronger than you think.”

“If you say so,” she said, her tone doubtful. “Dareth shiral, Felassan. May we meet again under better circumstances.”

“Dareth shiral,” he said. “Sule sal harthir.”

Just before they left, Andoriel went to speak to Mihris.

“Are you sure you will be alright here?” Andoriel asked her. 

Mihris nodded. “I will be fine,” she said. “ _We_ will be fine,” she added. “Ambassador...know that when you have need of Clan Virnehn, we will be here. We will not be part of your alliance, but if you call for our aid, we will do what we can to answer.”

Andoriel smiled. “That pleases me greatly to hear, Keeper.” 

Mihris gave a tiny smile of her own. “Just don’t call for our help unless you are in dire need of it.”

Andoriel chuckled. “I think I can manage that, da’len.” she told her. 

Andoriel and Felassan returned to Andoriel’s camp, where Mala, Ovra and Varras were breaking it down and unwinding their spells. 

“So,” Celene said. “What did they decide?”

“It is as I predicted,” Andoriel said. “Clan Virnehn will have to part of any alliance with Orlais, or with the Coalition.”

“Not with you, either?” Briala asked.

Andoriel shook her head. “No. It is a shame, but not unexpected. They want to be left alone.”

Felassan looked somewhat sour at this, but did not say anything.

“What do we do now?” Briala asked, scowling. “If they will not help--”

“Your problem requires a wider solution than the western Clans,” Andoriel said. “I need to return to Orzammar in any case, so we will go to Queen Aeducan. The Queen is more likely to give you assistance than any one Dalish Clan, especially the western ones. Besides which, the Coalition is meeting in Orzammar in a few months’ time, and I need to return there.” 

“You meet in Orzammar?” Felassan raised his eyebrows. “I never knew that.”

“What you don’t know could fill quite a few books, I wager,” Andoriel said, and Felassan smirked. 

“What about Gaspard?” Michel asked. “What do we do about him? He may not have found us yet, but surely he will soon--”

“Queen Aeducan will give you temporary sanctuary,” Andoriel said. “If we get to Orzammar, she can protect you. At least for a little while.”

Celene narrowed her eyes. 

“Queen Aeducan can protect us from the Orlesian army?” she asked, her tone doubtful.

“Yes,” Andoriel said. “She can.” she paused. “Do you not have military support of your own?”

Celene gave a heavy sigh. “After so long out of contact, there is a good chance they are running wild,” she said. “It's possible that Gaspard has even recruited them to his own. I would not be able to corral them without the support of other nobles.”

Andoriel raised her eyebrows. “It seems you're certainly in a fix, Your Majesty.”

“Yes,” Celene agreed. “I suppose so.”

Andoriel turned her attention to Briala and Felassan. “Briala, da’len, you and Felassan should come with me at any rate,” 

Briala looked surprised. “Why us specifically?” 

“Why, to meet the Coalition, of course,” Andoriel said. “We don’t have any representatives from any Orlesian Alienages, and we could definitely use one.”

“And what need have you for me?” Felassan asked.

“You’re her friend, aren’t you? And it’s hardly as if you were planning on going anywhere with Clan Virnehn.”

“Wait,” Celene said. “Why should you have need of someone to represent the interests of the Orlesian Alienages? I am already here. I represent the needs of all aspects of the Empire.”

Andoriel took a deep, calming breath, but her tone was steady and expression pleasant as she said “Having someone to speak for the Alienages is rather akin to, oh, having someone to speak for a bann or an arling. It simply promotes improved communication.”

“And how has this come about? I have heard nothing of it.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Andoriel smiled. “Outside of Ferelden, Alienage representatives only have power in the Coalition. The practice came about in Denerim after an incident during the Blight, where the Denerim Alienage was attacked by Tevinter slavers. The Queen, who would never have allowed Tevinters in her city, hadn’t known about it, because there was no official representative who could tell her and the Guard actively suppressed the knowledge.”

“Why would they do that?” Michel asked. “That does not make sense.”

“It was a gambit by Teryn Loghain,” Andoriel said. “The Denerim Alienage was in uproar after several of their own had been killed by a noble, and Teryn Loghain felt the best way to deal with the uprising was to set slavers on them rather than simply talk with them.”

Briala gave Celene a hard stare. Celene, for her part, said nothing.

“In any case, now we have representatives from many Alienages come to speak with the Dalish Coalition and with Orzammar,” Andoriel said. “But we have no one from the western Alienages.”

“I have heard nothing from any nation about this practice,” Celene said.

“No one would have told you,” Andoriel explained. “It isn’t something frequently spoken of.”

“And yet, you speak of it now.” Felassan said.

“Only in measures,” Andoriel smirked at him a little bit. “And we can hardly hide the Coalition’s existence, can we?”

Felassan raised his eyebrows. “And your Coalition willingly speaks with Alienage elves?”

“Of course. Should we not?” 

“I—that is simply good to hear,” 

Andoriel smiled. “I’m glad. Now, shall we be off?”

“We haven’t even said if we’re going with you,” Michel growled. 

Andoriel put her hands on her hips. “Well, are you or not? Decide now, my lad, because I'm not waiting around forever.”

“We will come with you,” Celene decided. “I will speak with Queen Aeducan, and see if she can be of assistance.”

“Good,” Andoriel said. “Then let’s go.”

They headed east, towards the mountains, at a brisk pace. The terrain became rocky and uphill, harder and harder to traverse. Briala, Celene and even Michel soon had difficulty in hiking, as they were more used to the lowlands of Orlais, not the foothills of the mountains. It did not help that the three of them were not well-equipped. 

Briala soon sported terrible blisters, the rocky ground hard on her feet. She winced every time she took her boots off.

Felassan, fortunately, had a solution for this problem, and healed her sore feet every time they stopped. 

“You really don't have to--” she started, when he healed her foot for the third time in as many nights.

“There are many things I do not have to do, but I choose to,” Felassan informed her. “In any case, it wouldn't do for you to have come all this way only to be felled by something as minor as an infected blister.”

“My feet are _not_ infected.”

“Well, not now they aren't.”

Briala pulled her foot from his grasp and rubbed her heel. She shook her head. “I don't understand it,” she said. “I've never had blisters like this before. I walk barefoot all the time and I've never had anything this bad.”

“Walking in the mountains is quite different than cities or lowland forests,” Felassan said. “Even an elf will have trouble if they've never been in mountains before.” Felassan chuckled. “You're simply lucky you have boots.”

Briala made a face at the thought of traversing the mountains barefoot. Her habit in the palace was to wear footwraps or flimsy palace slippers, like the other elvhen servants. It had been a stroke of luck that she'd been wearing her boots before getting arrested.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I suppose it is.” 

If Celene's hobbling made Briala smile, no one commented on it.

“You are quite different from other elvhen I have known,” Felassan said one morning, falling into step with Andoriel. 

“All elvhen are different, lad.” 

“You do not have...quite the same attitude of my kinsmen. You accept Briala and those of the Alienages without a second thought.”

Andoriel snorted. “This attitude about other elvhen the western Clans have—it's ridiculous.”

“So your Clan truly does not feel the same way about Alienage elves?” Felassan asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. 

“How about this, my lad,” Andoriel said. “My wife is Irren Talvi of Orzammar.”

Felassan paused. “...a dwarf.”

Andoriel nodded.

Briala, who had been listening to the conversation with some interest, stared at her. “You're married to a _dwarf_?”

“Oh, yes,” Andoriel said. “We even had two weddings—one with my Clan, and one in Orzammar with Irren's family.”

“And your Clan is...perfectly alright with that?” Felassan said, sounding a little strained.

“My Keeper married us,” Andoriel said with a wistful little sigh. “My mother was so pleased—she'd been banging on about me needing to get married for ages, I've already had three children, she was convinced I needed a good woman too.”

“Children?” Briala asked.

“Yes, three—all grown by now, and in different Clans. So,” she said, rolling her shoulders back. “You can just put Thelhen’s nonsense about Alienage elves not being true elvhen out of your mind. We’re just fine with elves, half-elves, dwarves, Vashothari—even a human or two.” she laughed. “Why, one of Clan Tualsalis is half-human!” 

“Truly?” Felassan was surprised.

“Oh, yes, Feynriel, a very skilled young man. We of the Coalition have found that we succeed if we stand together with others. We may keep our heritage, our language, our gods and our history, but we may also stand with others.” 

“A refreshing attitude,” Felassan said. 

“Well, many attitudes would be refreshing when compared with Thelhen’s, I am sure.”

“I had one question about that,” Michel butted in.

Andoriel sighed. “What is it, lad?’

“I was under the impression that Dalish Clans cast out mages if they had too many of them,” Michel said. “But the Keeper was a mage, and the woman who took his place. And you are, as well,” he nodded at Felassan and Andoriel. “As well as them.” he gestured towards Mala, Ovra and Varras. “I had been wondering for some time—where did you all come from?”

Andoriel’s back stiffened, and she glared at Michel. Mala, Varras and Ovra were also glaring, though the three of them had only been listening with half an ear.

“Magic is sacred to us,” Andoriel hissed. “We do not care for Templars, for Circles, or for anything that may cage or bind magic. Do you understand?” 

“That does not answer the question.”

“Does it not?”

“She does not wish to answer you, Michel,” Felassan said. “Because your question is quite an offensive and personal one.”

“How so?” 

“You just asked her if her family cast her out because of her magic. How is that not offensive?” 

“I was simply curious--”

“Take your ‘simply curious’ elsewhere,” Andoriel snapped. “I have known people whose children were taken or killed by Templars. I have known people whose children were made Tranquil by your Circles. I do not wish to tell you about what happens to our mages because of these things.”

“Very well,” Michel grumbled. 

“And do not mention Templars or the like in Orzammar, either,” Andoriel informed him. “The Queen and the Prince-Consort do not approve. Nor does the whole of Orzammar, really.”

“That is quite clear,” Celene interjected. “After Queen Aeducan ceased trade with the Templars of Kirkwall.”

“Templars are protectors,” Michel said. “Why would you scorn them?”

“Do protectors kill innocent children?” Andoriel snapped. “Do they hunt down mothers and fathers, and old men and women? Do they take people away so we can never see them again? No, they do not. Your ‘protectors’ are foul liars, and you would do well to cease your prattling about them.”

Shocked, Michel fell into silence. Celene looked slightly shocked as well, and Briala was not sure how to feel. 

In the Alienages and in Halam’shiral, elves distrusted Templars as much as they distrusted every other symbol of human authority. Briala knew many parents whose children had been taken away for magic, wives and husbands whose spouses had been separated from them, and even children orphaned by the Templars taking their parents. 

However, Briala also knew the horror stories of demons and wayward mages, and knew many of her kin felt the same. The Templars may have been distrusted, but so were most mages, unless the mage was a healer or enchanter. Most people just knew mages as dangerous and unsafe.

Briala was not sure how she felt about magic. She knew the usefulness of a magical healer, and knew how the Chantry was wary of them. She knew the Circles were rebellious, and of course knew of the troubles in Kirkwall. 

Felassan was her friend, and he never seemed frightening or demon-possessed. Mihris had not seemed very frightening either, and Andoriel, Mala, Varras and Ovra were all helpful and the furthest thing from dangerous most of the time. 

The vehement hatred of Templars was alien to her, however. They had simply never been a threat to her or those she loved. Felassan, the only mage she was close to, had more of an amused scorn for them than anything.

Briala had no doubt that even if the Templars tried to take Felassan, they would fail. 

She walked quietly, sometimes shooting a sidelong glance at Andoriel. She wondered if someone been taken from her, but did not want to ask.

It was a week of travel before they came to the deep Roads entrance that Andoriel had specified. They had hiked a little way into the Frostbacks, and everything was growing much colder. The morning frosts started to persist well into the day, and there was even a light flurry of snow which made Briala, Celene, Michel and Felassan all want for warmer clothes. Their companions, of course, had already come equipped.

Fortunately, they were not in the cold for very long. 

At the mouth of the Deep Roads entrance was a little camp, where one dwarrowdam in leather armor sat cooking a meal over a large fire. She sported a black brand on her face.

“Andoriel, Varras, Mala, Ovra, good to see you!” the dwarrowdam spotted them and gave a cheerful wave. 

“Lugsha, savhalla,” Andoriel smiled. “We just need to be heading back to Orzammar. Any trouble to watch out for?”

“No, the Legion’s been doing a good job keeping the road clear,” Lugsha said, getting to her feet. “Who are your friends?” she peered at Michel and Celene with particular interest.

“Some people who need to get to Orzammar,” Andoriel said.

“Oh, aye? Well, you best watch yourself—ghosts have been around lately.”

“Mythal’s mercy, that’s hardly a good sign, is it?” Andoriel said, putting a hand to her mouth. 

“Ghosts?” Felassan asked, raising his eyebrows.

Lugsha nodded and let out a breath. “Ghosts a’plenty, mostly dwarves, but we think we spotted some elvhen ones too. _Very_ strange.”

“Proper spirits, or just those echo things?” Andoriel asked.

“Not sure, no mages have gotten close enough to get a good look.” Lugsha looked at Andoriel’s companions. “These friends of yours have names?’

“This is Briala, ambassador of Halam’shiral,” she gestured to Briala. “Felassan Virnehn, of one of the Western Clans.” Andoriel took a breath, hesitated, then went on. “Her Majesty Celene Valmont, and her Champion, Michel de Chevin.”

Celene scowled at being introduced second to last, but said nothing. 

“Her Majesty?” Lugsha raised an eyebrow. “Not...the Orlesian Empress?”

“The very same.”

“Ancestors,” Lugsha breathed. “Well, you just go straight on through—like I said, the Legion’s cleared it out, but I wouldn’t linger for long.”

“We may have some Orlesian soldiers following us,” Andoriel said. “If a man named Gaspard comes, do not let him in the Roads. Inform Orzammar at once.”

“Absolutely, Ambassador,” Lugsha said. 

They went into the entrance, an enormous door set into the side of the mountain. Lugsha had to crank a huge wheel to get it to open, and she waved at them in farewell as they went inside.

“That brand on her face—she was Casteless, was she not?” Felassan asked as soon as they were out of earshot of Lugsha.

“You know what the brands mean?” Andoriel was surprised.

“Yes.”

“Well, yes, she’s Casteless. Queen Aeducan is trying to make headway against the caste system, but right now most of what’s available to them is jobs like guard and soldier and explorer.”

“Better than none at all, I wager?”

“Much better.” Andoriel said. “The Queen—well, I suppose almost dying in the Deep Roads really changes a person. She’s nothing like the Kings and Queens before her. She's changed many rules, even the ones about Orzammar-born dwarves going to the surface.”

“Apparently so,” Felassan said softly. "You are well-informed, I see."

"My Irren wouldn't ever have been able to marry me without the Queen changing the rules," Andoriel pointed out. "I know a thing or two about the dwarven laws."

“What are the Casteless?” Briala asked.

“Dwarves have different Castes, depending on what family they were born to,” Felassan explained. “One who is Casteless was born to a Casteless family. I think it is because they are believed to be descended from traitors or criminals.”

“And what has the brand to do with that?”

“They brand the faces of Casteless at birth, so all can see who they are.”

“And these are the people you entrust the Empress to?” Michel demanded, horrified.

“All empires do things that are regrettable,” Celene said. “You should know that yourself, Michel.” she gave Briala a significant look, but Briala simply turned away from her and put Felassan between herself and Celene. 

The Deep Roads were far warmer than the Frostbacks. They had a peculiar smell, like hot metal and lyrium. The road they walked down was paved and flat, a welcome change from the uneven rocks and pathways of the mountains.

It took them quite some time to come to the gates of Orzammar. The gates were absolutely enormous, towering overhead, carved with intricate designs and lovingly polished to a shine. Two guards stood by the gate.

“Ambassador,” one of the gate guards nodded at Andoriel as he saw her approach.

Andoriel smiled. “Ander'an atish'an,” she said. “I bring guests for the Queen and the Prince-Consort.”

The guard raised his eyebrows as he surveyed her companions. “We’ll send a messenger right away,” he assured her.

“Thank you.”

The gates, as huge as they are, took several moments to open. They moved slowly and ponderously, but didn't make a sound. When the gates were open, they stepped through into Orzammar.

Briala stared, her eyes huge. Even the marvels of Val Royeaux hardly compared to all this—immense buildings of carved stone, centuries old, hot magma used as light, jewel-studded statues lining the walls. She saw stories and histories played out in carvings on the walls, likenesses hundreds of feet high.

“Maker,” she breathed.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Andoriel asked. “Me, I still prefer forests and open sky—but it’s beautiful in it’s own way.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea how all these people cope with all this stone overhead,” Felassan said, staring up at the cave roof, far over their heads.

“I haven't either,” Andoriel said. “It’s nice for a visit, but to live here?” she shook her head. “I’m just lucky Irren likes the surface just as she likes Orzammar.”

“Where to now?” Briala asked. 

“The Palace,” Andoriel said. “That messenger should have told them we were coming. Come on—we need to move quickly.”

Mala, Ovra and Varras hurried off their separate ways. Having only been there to help Andoriel with spellwork, they were no longer needed, and could do as they pleased. 

They walked through Orzammar, Briala marveling at the sights. She had never seen so many people of different races intermingling happily before. 

Most of the people were dwarves, but she saw a rather large number of elves (both Dalish and not), and once she even saw a tall Vashoth woman. The Vashoth woman was arm-in-arm with an elvhen woman who lacked the Dalish tattoos, and they both laughed and smiled easily as anything. 

She saw a group of Dalish arguing fervently with a dwarven merchant, a Dalish man accompanied by a large crowd of children (some elvhen, some dwarven), and a pack of teenagers that were mostly dwarves, but with two elves among them. There were even a few mages, Dalish, non-Dalish elvhen, and human, doing many different tasks. One was helping workers move large slabs of stone, another conjured blocks of ice for eager buyers, and still another helped to heat the bellows of a huge, open forge.

It reminded her in some ways of Clan Virnehn, but no one so much as gave her a second glance. Some people waved to Andoriel, but other than that, their little group was considered just as normal as the rest.

That felt...good. No one glared at her, or stared at her, or made rude comments about elves. Plenty of the merchants called out to her with their wares, but none of the guard scowled when they saw her and she didn't hear the words 'rabbit' or 'flat-ear' once. 

“Amazing,” Felassan murmured. He had a huge grin on his face, and his eyes were wide as he looked around. “Absolutely amazing.”

Michel and Celene, in contrast, said nothing, and looked mildly uncomfortable.

The Royal Palace was a huge building set into the cliff face, covered in more jewels and carvings than the area surrounding it. There was an enormous set of double-doors that lead inside, and before the doors was a huge statue of a dwarrowdam with a crown and long hair, dressed in full armor. 

“This way,” Andoriel said. They went in through the main doors, and came into a large antechamber. The antechamber was decorated with huge stone murals on the walls, and not only was there a likeness of the same dwarrowdam who was carved in stone before the entrance, there was the likeness of an elf, as well. In the mural, the elf and the dwarrowdam faced each other and held each other's hands. 

In the antechamber they met an older dwarrowdam with steel-gray hair pulled back into a severe bun.

“Steward Bandelora, hello,” Andoriel said.

“Ambassador, good to see you,” Bandelora gave a weary smile. “I see you’ve brought guests.”

“Yes, and we need to meet with Their Majesties at their earliest convenience.”

The steward raised her eyebrows. “Why? The messenger didn’t say why, only that they had come.” 

Celene stepped forward. ‘I am Empress Celene Valmont I, of Orlais, and I have dire need of your Queen’s assistance.”

Bandelora stared up at her for a long moment. “I will inform Their Majesties,” she said. “Please, wait here.”

After about half an hour, Bandelora came back. “Their Majesties will see you,” she said. “All of you.” 

They were lead into an enormous audience chamber, where blue lyrium crystals as well as burning braziers illuminated the hall. 

At the end of the hall were two thrones. On the right was a dwarrowdam with long dark hair and a full suit of gold-washed ceremonial armor. She bore a crown that was etched with intricate patterns, and when she got to her feet, a long, dark red cape followed her. She was quite clearly the dwarrowdam depicted in the statue before the entrance, and the murals of the antechamber behind them. 

On the left was an elvhen man, of medium height, with long blond hair pulled back into elaborate braids. Into the braids was woven precious gems and rings of gold, and on his head was another crown, more delicate than the Queen’s but still very fine. He was dressed in armor as well, steel mail and plating better suited to a rogue than the Queen’s warrior armor. He was obviously the elf whose image decorated the mural in the antechamber. 

“Queen Aeducan, Prince-Consort Arainai,” Andoriel bowed low at the waist, then straightened. “Might I introduce Empress Celene Valmont the First of Orlais, her champion Michel de Chevin, Briala, representative of Halam’shiral and the Alienages of the West, and Felassan, representative of the unallied Dalish Clans of the West.” 

Queen Aeducan and Prince-Consort Arainai both slightly inclined their heads. Andoriel turned back to the party. 

“Might I present Queen Culwydd Aeducan, the True Queen of Orzammar, and her Prince-Consort, Zevran Arainai of Antiva, cousin of the Dalish Coalition of the East.”

“Atrast vala, visitors,” the Queen stepped down from her dais, the Prince-Consort falling in step with her. 

“Ander’an atish’an and other greetings to you, cousins,” the Prince-Consort inclined his head towards Andoriel, then smiled at both Briala and Felassan in a way that was vaguely disquieting. “We understand you come to us with a problem?” 

“Yes, Your Majesties,” Celene said. “I come to you in desperate need. My throne is in a very great danger.”

“This danger is familiar to us, Empress,” Queen Aeducan’s face softened for a moment. “But we wish to hear the grievances of _all_ those who have come before us.” she looked to Briala, then Felassan. “How fare the Alienages of the West?” she asked. 

“I--” Briala stumbled, unused to being addressed directly. “We--” she glanced sidelong at Celene. She took a deep breath. “Your Majesties, We—are threatened, because Empress Celene’s rule is threatened,” she said. “If her throne is taken, we will suffer.”

“We see.” Queen Aeducan and Prince-Consort Arainai glanced at each other, then looked at Felassan. “And how fare the unallied Clans of the West?” 

“We are still unallied, Your Majesties,” Felassan said, with a faint sigh. “Disparate, and uncooperative. They wish no part of your alliances, and have no kinship with the Alienages. Some even drive out their own kind.”

“We know of this tragedy,” it was Prince-Consort Arainai who spoke now. “Is there anything we can do, a hand we can reach out, that will bring the western Clans back to us?”

Felassan blinked. “I...could not say,” he said. “I would have to think on it.” 

Queen Aeducan inclined her head. “We understand your concerns. However, there is little we can do at this present time. If our guests will permit it, we would meet with them and discuss their problems in greater detail. Ambassador,” she addressed Andoriel, who stood straighter. “Do you plan to bring Ambassador Briala and Ambassador Felassan to the Coalition meeting?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Ambassador Briala, Ambassador Felassan, we would ask you meet with the Coalition to discuss your concerns. Empress Valmont, we would meet with you privately.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Celene said. 

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Felassan said, a strange smile playing about the corners of his mouth. 

“Of course, Majesty,” Briala said. 

Michel said nothing, but seemed sullen at not being addressed.

“For now, you should rest, and restore yourselves,” Queen Aeducan declared. “We will speak with you in due time.”

They were ushered into a smaller antechamber, where there was food laid out. 

“That went well,” Andoriel said with a smile. “And nothing about your Gaspard yet! He must not have caught up with us. The Queen will know what to do, I’m sure.”

“Your Coalition will meet with us?” Felassan asked her. “You are certain?”

“Of course, haven’t I said enough times? Oh, hush now—Their Majesties are coming, and will definitely want to speak with you.”

Through a door at the far end, the Queen and the Prince-Consort had arrived. The Queen’s hand lay on the Prince-Consort’s arm with delicacy that was at odds with her severe face and plate armor. They split up, the Prince-Consort approaching Briala and Felassan, while Queen Aeducan went to Celene and Michel.

“So, you are the ambassador of the western Clans, yes?” the Prince-Consort asked them. His honey-colored eyes gleamed in the light, and he looked them both over with a critical gaze that missed nothing. He had dark tattoos trailing down one side of his face that accentuated his sharp cheekbones. Every time he tilted his head, the jewels in his braids clicked together quietly. 

“I suppose that is what I have become, Your Majesty,” Felassan said.

“Ambassador Andoriel tells us it was more or less an accident,” the Prince-Consort had a smile that was somehow both dangerous and friendly. “Such a strange twist of fate, no?” 

“Perhaps, Majesty.”

“Come,” the Prince-Consort lead Briala and Felassan to a more private corner. “While our lady wife speaks with your companions, you can speak with us, yes? We know little of the elvhen of the west.”

“The Alienages of Orlais are part of Orlais, Majesty,” Briala said. “If you had wanted to know us, you need only come and see.” 

The Prince-Consort laughed, an airy chuckle with a hard edge. “Ah, dear friend, is that so? And how would the nobles of Orlais react if our ambassadors came to their cities?”

Briala considered that. “Most likely not very well, Majesty.”

“Exactly.”

“You know little of Orlesian elvhen, Majesty?” Felassan cocked an eyebrow. 

“Orlesian?” The Prince-Consort waved a hand. “My friend, the Dalish west of the Frostbacks are as Orlesian as we are—and as the Alienages are barely considered Orlesian by the country, they too, are ‘west of the Frostbacks.’” he gave a tiny smirk. “And it amuses us to see Orlesians become so angry when we call their country ‘the west.’ They have called our country ruins, and my mother’s people savages, so we see no reason not to do the same. It is a petty pleasure, but we enjoy it.” 

“What is your country, Majesty?” Felassan asked. 

“Our country is Orzammar, and the dwarven lands, of course,” the Prince-Consort said. “Oh, I was born in fair Antiva, and lived there for many years, but my heart—and my citizenship—is with my lady wife. But come, we are not here to talk about me, however much I may enjoy it. Tell us of yourselves.”

He slipped from the royal ‘we’ to the singular pronoun with ease, and every movement was graceful. He made the hair on the back of Briala’s neck stand on end. 

“I come from Halam’shiral, Your Majesty,” Briala explained, with a sidelong glance at Felassan. 

“Ah,” the Prince-Consort inclined his head. “Halam’shiral. A sore point for many of our Dalish friends.”

“A sore point for us, as well,” Briala said. 

“Come, tell us of your troubles.”

“There...was a rebellion in the city,” she explained. “The people grew restless.”

The Prince-Consort nodded and clucked his tongue. “Yes, rebellion, we sympathize quite a great deal. The Denerim Alienage had such troubles during the Blight, as well.” he gave a delicate frown. “Are we to understand this did not end well?”

“Not well at all,” Briala shook her head. “The city—all except for the human quarter—was burned to quell the rebellion.” her eyes flicked unwillingly to Celene’s back. 

The Prince-Consort’s expression grew somewhat colder as his gaze followed hers. “You would benefit greatly from speaking with a representative of the Denerim Alienage,” he said. “Their rebellion was meant to be stopped by Tevinter slavers.” 

“Ambassador Andoriel told us,” Briala said.

“Such a pleasant lady, no?” the Prince-Consort smiled again. 

Every word he said put Briala on edge. She knew this man was dangerous, though his danger was not necessarily aimed at her.

She had heard, as had the rest of Orlais, when Queen Aeducan married an elf. She had also learned he was once an Antivan Crow, and he still carried himself like one. She suspected that somewhere on his person was a great variety of weapons, and she had no doubt that if she were in a blade fight with him, she would lose. 

She also knew that it was unlikely she would enter a blade fight. The Crows were careful, and royalty even more so. If he wanted to harm her, no one would ever know he had done it. 

“The ambassador mentioned we should meet with the Coalition heads,” Felassan said. “And the Queen did so as well.”

The Prince-Consort nodded. “Indeed you should.”

“And what of Empress Celene? Would it not be worthwhile for her to meet them as well?”

The Prince-Consort laughed. “If you were to bring the Empress to meet the Coalition, they would be most displeased.”

“Why?”

“You are Dalish, are you not?” the Prince-Consort eyed Felassan with a penetrating gaze. “Why do you think?”

“They are so short-sighted that they would refuse an alliance with Orlais?” Felassan’s expression was calculating. 

“Short-sighted? Perhaps. Perhaps they merely have long memories. If even Andraste’s word could not protect them from Orlais, what use is the word of the Empress?” 

Briala recalled the play that had implied Celene’s favoritism of elves. “Her word would not mean much,” she said quietly. “But without her, the elves of Orlais would suffer more than they would otherwise.”

“Then what is what you must tell the Coalition,” the Prince-Consort said. “Otherwise, they will care not.”

“What will they do, if they will not ally with the Empress?” Felassan asked.

“They must decide that. We could not tell you.”

Felassan tilted his head to one side, examining the Prince-Consort. The Prince-Consort, for his part, met Felassan’s violet eyes steadily. 

“And when will the Coalition meet?” Felassan asked.

“We will inform you,” The Prince-Consort said. “It would be impolitic to mention it in present company,” his gaze flicked to Celene’s back.

“You don’t wish her to know?” Briala asked.

The Prince-Consort smiled at her, his teeth catching the light. “I see you understand.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, not really.” she had an idea of why, but she wanted to know for certain before she made any guesses.

“Not to worry. I am sure that you will soon enough.”

On the other side of the room, Queen Aeducan approached Celene.

“So, we understand your throne is in danger,” Queen Aeducan said. “Come, while our lord husband speaks with your elvhen companions, we shall talk, one Queen to another.”

“Of course,” Celene inclined her head, and watched out of the corner of her eye while Prince-Consort Arainai lead Felassan and Briala to a more private part of the antechamber. 

“Tell us, who threatens your throne?”

“A cousin, Grand-Duke Gaspard,” Celene explained. “He wishes to plunge our empire into civil war.”

Queen Aeducan tutted in a disapproving way. “We understand the problems of family,” she said. “What is it you would have us do?”

"Formally ally with me,” Celene said. “Declare that you back my line, and not his. Your armies will intimidate him into ceasing his attempts at conquest.” 

Queen Aeducan gave Celene a long look. “We shall see,” she said. “We must speak with our lord husband, and consider this.”

“As you will,” Celene looked her over, trying to see past her Queenly mask. A veteran of the Game, Celene prided herself on seeing what people really meant. 

“What other concerns do you have?”

“That is the one that is the most worrisome at this time.”

Queen Aeducan considered her, and Celene felt rather like a bug under glass. She was a formidable woman, her armor not for show in the slightest. From the way she moved, one could quite clearly see she was a warrior. 

Celene would not be able to best this woman in a fight. She knew that immediately, and she knew that the Queen knew.

Celene had no leverage by which to get the Queen to do what she wanted. Queen Aeducan would do as she willed, when she willed it, and nothing Celene did would sway her.

It made Celene feel unsteady, to be suddenly regarded as less than someone.

As Celene had few other concerns, the Queen left her to return to her husband’s side. They spoke with each other softly, and Celene returned to Briala and Felassan.

“What did the two of you speak of?” Celene asked.

“Nothing,” Briala shrugged. 

Celene stared at her, expression hard, but they both focused on Queen Aeducan when she spoke again.

“We have no desire to enstrange our Ferelden or Dalish allies,” the Queen said, her face grave. “We will not support any Orlesian monarch. Empress Celene may stay here as long as she wishes, to rest and recover herself, but we will offer no other aid.”

Briala felt the breath leave her.

“Ambassador Briala, Ambassador Felassan, we would still urge you to meet with the Coalition, and we will of course give our support to anyone allied with the Coalition. But we cannot in good conscience support any Orlesian monarch.”

With that, their audience was ended.


	4. Qu'un Sang Impur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's some more unusual dalish clans

They were shown to quarters in the Palace, and Briala followed Andoriel into the room where she was quartered.

Briala slammed the door behind her.

“You told us she would help!” she snapped at Andoriel. “You told us she would ally!”

“I said no such thing,” Andoriel said. “And the Queen had the right to make the choice she did.”

“All that talk about how we are the same—it was all a lie, wasn’t it?” Briala snarled.

“What are you talking about?” Andoriel demanded. 

“You care about lands lost so long ago, with not a thought to those living now!” Briala said. “You hardly care enough to help us when we need it!”

Andoriel’s expression grew stormy. “Aye, we care for our lands!” Andoriel snapped. “And for the children stolen by Templars, the Clans killed by Chevaliers, the nobles who call for our blood, who want nothing more than to see us all dead or cowed, bowing to their shemlen Queen and their god!”

“But Celene is not like that!” Briala insisted. “She would help--”

“Like she helped Halam’shiral?” Andoriel demanded, and Briala felt like she had been slapped. “Stop defending her! She has used you and lied to you and hurt your family, destroyed your home!”

“What else would you have me do?” Briala tore at her hair. “She is a murderess, but Gaspard is worse! He would see us all slaughtered like pigs, driving his empire to war! _What would you have me do?”_

Andoriel stopped. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, da’len. We must meet with the Coalition. Beyond that...” she sighed. “I don’t know what to do about Orlais. Our troubles are enough without Orlais falling apart at the seams.”

Briala folded her arms. “I fail to see the good it will do.”

“And I fail to see the harm,” Andoriel informed her, her tone frosty. “The meeting is in three days’ time. Be there or not, but if you are not there, we cannot help.”

“As if you would help a flat-ear,” Briala hissed, remembering the words of Clan Virnehn.

Andoriel’s ears flushed. “That is _enough_ ,” she snapped. “Come. If you have such trouble believing my words, I will take you there now.” she took Briala’s arm and steered her out of the door. 

“Now where is that slippery friend of yours?” Andoriel muttered.

“Who? Felassan?”

Andoriel nodded. 

“I’m not sure,” Briala said. “I do not keep him.”

“Then I shall find him myself.”

They found Felassan examining one of the mosaics that decorated the walls of the palace. The mosiac depicted the wedding of the Prince-Consort and the Queen, and interestingly, showed many elves as well as dwarves in it, as well as symbolism that could be associated with the Dalish.

“Come on, you,” Andoriel said, grabbing Felassan by the shoulder.

“Where exactly are we going?” Felassan asked, surprised. 

“To see the Coalition.”

“So, they are meeting soon, then?”

“In three days.”

In one of the Palace’s many hallways, they came to meet the Prince-Consort, who had still not changed out of his armor.

“Prince-Consort,” Andoriel inclined her head. “We must go to the Coalition.”

“Of course,” the Prince-Consort said. “I was just about to go myself. Apparently the majority of the ambassadors and Keepers have arrived.”

“Have they?” they fell into step with the Prince-Consort as he walked down the hall. 

He nodded. “My lady wife needs to stay here,” he explained to Andoriel. “But they have requested my presence as soon as possible.”

“Is it urgent?”

“I do not believe it is more urgent then when you left,” the Prince-Consort said with a slight frown. 

"But we’re still having problems.”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Who else is there besides them? The Warden-Commander, the Grand Enchanter, Lady Hawke…?”

“No, none of them, not that I know of—no one has yet been able to locate the Warden-Commander,” he said, pursing his lips. “Keeper Merrill is coming, of course, but Lady Hawke has not accompanied her.”

“Lady Hawke, Your Majesty?” Briala interjected. “Of Kirkwall? Why would she be there?”

“Oh, quite a few reasons,” the Prince-Consort explained. “She is Keeper Merrill’s friend, and deeply involved in the Kirkwall affair.”

Briala’s lip curled. She knew of the problems of Kirkwall. 

“And what of Chantry representatives?” Andoriel asked. “Sister Leliana, or any of her people…?”

“They would have been refused, but they did not even approach,” the Prince-Consort said. “The Sister has not so much as contacted me in the months you’ve been gone.”

“Creators,” Andoriel muttered. “Briala, da’len, do you have any recent information on what the Chantry has been up to?”

Briala raised her eyebrows. “Recent? No, not particularly.”

“Damn,” she shook her head. “And the Circles?”

“I believe one of Fiona’s people has come to see us,” the Prince-Consort said. “But the woman herself is not here.”

“The Circles are in uproar,” Briala said. “That much I know.”

“Oh, that much anyone knows,” the Prince-Consort said.

They went through the Palace, through winding back corridors and strange, darkened spaces, and Briala became hopelessly lost till they came to a small antechamber. The room had a tall mirror at the back of it, one that reached all the way to the ceiling. It glowed a dark blue and was set in a clearly dwarven frame. The mirror made the strangest sounds, like water on the surface of a pond. 

Felassan stared at it, openmouthed. “I’d never have guessed...” he whispered

“What is this?” Briala asked.

“It is called an eluvian,” the Prince-Consort explained. “The ancient elves used them for transport. You step into one, and appear out of another somewhere else.”

“Magic?”

“Of course.” 

“How did you...” Felassan breathed.

“Didn’t I tell you we had them?” Andoriel said.

“Yes, but I—I hadn’t really thought...”

“Keeper Merrill is the one who started restoring the network,” Andoriel said. 

“This one is ours,” the Prince-Consort explained. “Keeper Merrill activated one in the Frostbacks, and when she brought the information about the network to the Coalition, they decided to share it with us.”

“I should very much like to meet your Keeper Merrill,” Felassan said. “How did she do it?”

“It’s a very complicated field of study,” Andoriel sighed. “She gave us an explanation, but only a few people have been able to replicate her process.”

“Thelhen summoned Imshael to make one of these work, didn’t he?” Briala asked Felassan.

Felassan nodded. “He did.”

The Prince-Consort smiled at them. “Come,” he said. “Why don’t we show you how it works?”

The Prince-Consort put his palm on the mirror, and it sunk in. His arm went in up to the shoulder, and then he walked through it entirely, vanishing from view. Andoriel followed him, walking through it without a second thought.

Felassan came to the mirror, paused, and touched it. Carefully, he sunk his arm in up to the elbow. Briala watched him.

“Is it safe?” she asked.

Felassan smiled. “Oh, yes,” he said. 

He reached out his other hand to her. She took it, and they walked through together. On the other side was a strange, foggy place, full of other mirrors. Andoriel and the Prince-Consort were waiting for them.

“Where are we?” Briala asked.

“The Crossroads,” Andoriel said. “Where all the eluvians come together. This way.” they came to another mirror that glowed a deep green.

On the other end of the mirror, they came to an unfamiliar ruin that was like nowhere Briala had ever seen before. It was old, crowded with trees and flowers. People and aravels and tents were everywhere, all bustling about and very busy.

“Here is our meeting place,” Andoriel said. 

“Where are we?” Briala asked.

“The Brecelian forest,” Andoriel said. “One of the graveyards of our ancient mothers and fathers. During the Blight, it was occupied by werewolves, but the Warden-Commander and the Prince-Consort chased them out.”

“Come,” the Prince-Consort said. “The others are up ahead.”

“The other ambassadors?” Felassan asked.

Andoriel nodded. “Them, the Keepers--” she heaved a sigh. “I hope Surana will come, but I don't know.” 

“Not the Warden who burnt down Amaranthine?” Briala asked, surprised. “You mentioned her earlier, but...”

Andoriel clucked her tongue. “Is that really all the west remembers her for?”

“She did, didn’t she?”

“And she killed the Archdemon, and brought the King and Queen of Ferelden together, and defeated the werewolves of the Brecelian.”

“And she was the one who brought my lady wife and I together as well,” the Prince-Consort added.

They came to a clearing, surrounded by stone. There was a wide variety of people here, all chatting softly amongst themselves. The Prince-Consort immediately moved off to speak to a Dalish woman with ash-blonde hair. 

“That’s Keeper Lanaya,” Andoriel explained in a soft voice, gesturing to the blonde woman. “The Keeper who founded the Coalition, the first one to join with the Wardens. Come—you should speak with her.”

They joined the Prince-Consort’s side, and Lanaya smiled at them in greeting. “Ah,” she said. “Our western cousins?”

“This is Ambassador Briala, of Halam’shiral,” Andoriel said. “And this is Ambassador Felassan, of the western Dalish Clans.”

“Ander’an’atish’an,” Lanaya said, her eyes lingering on Felassan. She then glanced at Andoriel, who did the oddest thing—she gave the tiniest shake of her head. Briala narrowed her eyes, confused, but Lanaya began to speak again. “It’s wonderful to have representatives from the west,” she said. “Andoriel has been trying for months, but we hadn’t heard any promising results.”

“Am I to understand your Coalition truly considers city elvhen kin?” Felassan asked. “Many of the...western Clans...”

“Oh, yes,” Lanaya nodded. “Why—see, there’s Ambassador Tabris, of Denerim,” she pointed at a dark woman with curly black hair. “And Ambassador Cohen, from Redcliffe. And—oh, I’m sure they’ll be introduced. But there’s an ambassador from every major Alienage here, except for the western ones.” she looked at Briala. “I hope you can help change that,” she said with a smile.

“Your meeting is in several days, you said?” Felassan asked.

“Three days from now,” Lanaya said. “We need to wait for everyone else to arrive.”

“I cannot wait here several days.” Briala said, worried. “Celene will miss me, and then your secrecy will be lost.”

“You can go back and forth as often as you want,” Andoriel said. “Or you could send a message. The Queen already expressed an interest in speaking to you, you could likely ask her to throw Celene off your trail.”

Briala nodded. “It is not dangerous to go through the mirror so often?”

“No, not at all,” Lanaya said. 

“The eluvians were used for travel in Elvhenan,” Felassan said. “More people used them, and more often, and nothing bad came of it.”

“You’re sure?” Briala said, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the eluvian.

“Quite sure.”

Andoriel, the Prince-Consort, and Lanaya shared an unreadable look before Andoriel turned to Briala again. 

“So, you may return to Orzammar and come back here at any time,” she said. “for now, I suggest you go about and get to know the other ambassadors who are here.”

Briala and Felassan looked at each other. 

“You are certain?” Felassan asked.

Andoriel sighed. “ _Yes_ , I'm certain,” she said. “Ah—there's Hannah—Ambassador Dysla,” she pointed to a tall elvhen woman with the muscular arms of a baker, in plain city elf dress. “Ambassador Dysla!” she waved. 

The Ambassador came over. “Your Majesty, good afternoon,” she bowed to the Prince-Consort, who smiled and inclined his head. She straightened and looked to Lanaya and Andoriel. “Keeper Lanaya, Andoriel, hello,” she beamed. “I just got here. Maker, but those mirror things of yours are bloody useful.”

“We like to think so,” Lanaya said. 

Ambassador Dysla glanced at Felassan and Briala. “Hello,” she said. “I don't believe we've met.”

“I’m Ambassador Briala, of Halam’shiral.” Briala said. 

“Ambassador Hannah Dysla, of the Highever Alienage,” the woman said, shaking Briala’s hand with a firm grip. 

“The Coalition extends all the way to Highever?” Briala raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“As far north as Kirkwall, with some Dalish Keepers from the Free Marches,” Ambassador Dysla explained. “It’s good you’re here. We don’t have any Orlesian representatives.” she snorted. “Or ‘western’ representatives. Whichever.” she glanced at Felassan. “And you?”

“Felassan, of the western Clans,” he said. 

“Pleased to meet you,” she said. “Briala, have you met any of the other city ambassadors?”

Briala shook her head. 

“Oh—well, David and Uvundar are here,” Ambassador Dysla tapped her lip. “That's Ambassador Ile and Ambassador Tabris, of course,” she added. “Keeper, has anyone else shown up?”

“Ambassadors Jathann, Cohen and Sarah,” Lanaya said. “Just over there, the last I saw,” she pointed towards a group of elves on the far side of the clearing, none of whom wore vallaslin.

Ambassador Dysla nodded. “Well, come on,” she said. “You should meet them if you haven't! Can't hang out with these stuffy Dalish buggers forever, can we?” she winked at Andoriel, who laughed. 

“Alright,” Briala felt a bit dazed, followed Ambassador Dysla to the others, Felassan coming along as well.

Andoriel watched Briala and Felassan talk to the other ambassadors.

“I don’t like that Felassan,” Andoriel muttered to Lanaya as soon as Felassan and Briala were out of earshot.

“’Slow arrow?’” Lanaya raised her eyebrows. “Not a good sign.”

“Exactly. He could be from a Clan like Keeper Dhaiveira’s, but he’s never so much as mentioned a Clan name.”

Lanaya raised her eyebrows further. “That actually worries me far more.”

Andoriel inclined her head.

“He watches everything,” Zevran said. “Far more closely than Briala does—with a more practiced eye. That is...unnerving.”

“How so?” Lanaya asked. 

“If his story is to be believed, Felassan is from some backwoods Clan. Briala has been embroiled in the Orlesian court since she was young.” 

Lanaya frowned. “That doesn't sound good,” she muttered to herself. “And what about Briala?”

“She’s not what I would call harmless, but she isn’t an active threat.” Andoriel said.

“Oh, certainly not harmless,” Zevran gave a small chuckle. “I suspect that Empress Celene may want to watch her step, if you see my meaning.”

“She’s his friend,” Andoriel explained. “And he’s quite protective of her.”

“That’s surely a good thing, isn’t it?” Lanaya asked, glancing between the two of them. “He wouldn't do anything to put her in harm's way.”

“Ah, friendship is not always a guarantee of lack of harm,” Zevran said. 

Andoriel frowned. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He just...gives me a bad feeling. Has anyone had any more odd dreams?”

“Keeper Merrill said that Feynriel’s trying to keep an eye out for the Elder One in the Fade, but hasn’t come across anything other than the usual oddness,” Lanaya said, her brow furrowed. 

“And that usual oddness involves a lot of wolf imagery and the name 'Fen'harel', I take it?”

Lanaya nodded. “It does.” she let out a breath through her nose. “Have any spirits you've spoken to--?”

“More about Fen'harel, nothing useful,” Andoriel sighed. “No specifics, of course. I asked a Wisdom spirit about him, she couldn't give me anything,”

Lanaya rubbed her chin. “What about the mages in Orzammar, Prince-Consort?” 

Zevran shook his head. “I'm afraid even if we hosted any dreamwalkers—which we do not—all they would see would be echoes of Orzammar. Nothing other than the normal strangenesses.”

Lanaya brushed her hair out of her eyes. “I see. Keep an eye on Felassan,” she said. “I’ll see what Keeper Dhaiveira thinks—it’s possible Felassan’s Clan is even more insular than his.”

Andoriel nodded. “I was already planning on it,” she said. 

“He and Briala are guests of Orzammar, of course,” Zevran said. “They will be quite safe.”

“And the Empress?”

“Also safe.” Zevran pursed his lips. “Although, considering how things are going in Orlais in her absence, that might not be the best thing.”

Lanaya closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “The Chantry?” she said.

Zevran nodded. “We do not have all the news—the Nightingale has not contacted us for some months. But what we do have is not good.”

“And relations with the Divine have not improved?”

He shook his head. “Justinia no longer works on any model except a practical one,” he said. “And since the Lord Seeker would disapprove of an alliance with us, that leaves her in a tenuous position.”

“And us as well, then,” Lanaya said.

“And you as well.”

“We can speak of it with the other ambassadors and the Keepers,” Andoriel said. “We can hardly make any plans now.” she sighed. “I still have to write something up about those dratted Clans in the west...”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Lanaya said as if she had just remembered. “I believe Keeper Adarian is near, but I don't think he's here yet.”

“I'll go find him,” Andoriel said. “Then I'll go keep an eye on Felassan and Briala.”

“Good idea.”

“So, you're Orlesian?” Ambassador Tabris was dark-eyed and dark-haired, and stared at Briala with an intensity that was startling. 

“Is that a problem for you?” Briala asked, noting Tabris' Ferelden accent.

Ambassador Sarah, the Ansburg representative, chuckled. “Oh, she'd only have a problem if you were Tevinter,” she said, patting Tabris on the back. 

“Wouldn't everyone?” muttered Ambassador Ile, a small man with short dark hair and a pair of spectacles. He was from Gwaren, and even with his spectacles, he had a habit of squinting at everything.

“True enough!” Ambassador Dysla said.

Briala couldn't help a small smile. “I suppose they would.” she glanced around at them. “What are your alliances with the Dalish like?”

“Oh, well they're stuffy and most of them act like they have a tree up their collective asses--” Ambassador Dysla said, before Sarah prodded her in the shoulder. “But they're good people. Why do you ask? Andoriel took you here, didn't she?”

“Well, yes,” Briala admitted. “But...well, we haven't had the best...relations with them.”

“What do you mean?” Ambassador Ile asked. 

Briala shrugged. “When you get called 'flat-ear' by people you're asking for help, it hardly leaves the best impression.”

“Who called you that?” Ambassador Sarah asked, shocked. She looked around at the other ambassadors. “It couldn't be anyone here, could it? I'd have a word with whoever it was--”

Briala shook her head. “No—Felassan and I went to Clan Virnehn for help, and--”

“Oh, well there's your problem,” Ambassador Dysla said. “Andoriel told me all about them.”

“Wasn't that the Clan Andoriel had to get three other mages to deal with?” Ambassador Ile asked, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

“Yes, actually,” Briala said, blinking. 

Ambassador Dysla nodded. “I was here when she came back for help. Apparently the Keeper is some kind of idiot? She was furious.”

“There's a different Keeper now,” Briala assured her.

“Well, that's only to the good, I'm sure.”

Briala continued speaking with the other ambassadors for some time, and found it to be a rewarding experience. Felassan, for his part, did not participate, instead merely observing. 

After some time, Briala realized that she might be missed by Celene, and so she had to return. She and Felassan went back to Orzammar through the eluvian, Andoriel coming with them to prevent them losing their way. The Prince-Consort stayed at the meeting place to continue speaking with the other Coalition representatives.

Briala shook her head, still incredulous. “That was—very different than what I’d expected,” she said as they made their way through the crossroads. 

“Very different from Clan Virnehn,” Felassan agreed. “I’m...impressed.”

“Is that so?” Andoriel asked. “Well, I’m glad we meet your approval.” 

Felassan shrugged. “I have spent all my time in the western forests,” he said. “The Dalish there are not like the ones who make up the Coalition.”

Andoriel narrowed her eyes. 

“Tell me,” she said. “Who is the clan of your birth? You’ve never mentioned a name.”

“You would not like to meet them, I am sure,” Felassan said.

“Why not?”

“My Clan does not believe quite the same things other Dalish do.”

“Well, if they named you ‘Felassan,’ that’s quite obvious,” 

Briala frowned. She wasn’t quite certain what Andoriel was getting at, but Felassan seemed to be taking it in stride.

“Come, we will hardly cast you out,” Andoriel urged. “Who is your Clan?” 

“Very far away,” Felassan said. 

“Do you have a name? We might be able to find them.”

Felassan gave a strange smile and shook his head. “No. You would not.” 

Andoriel tilted her head back. “You should return to the Empress when we arrive in Orzammar,” she told Briala. “You mentioned worrying that she might miss you?”

Briala blinked at the change of topic. “I suppose,” she said. “What of your meeting with Keeper Lanaya?”

“Oh, that went well enough,” Andoriel said. “I just needed to double-check a few things, and I had to find out where my Clan's keeper was.”

“She wasn't the Keeper of your Clan?”

“No. She's Clan Leanvunlas—my Clan is Panalanvinte, and my Keeper is Adarian.”

“Was he there?”

“No, but he'll likely be by tomorrow,” Andoriel said, shaking her head. “I even went back to the part of the Crossroads my Clan favors—he just had to take the time to go gallivanting off to look at some ruins.”

“A flighty sort, is he?” Felassan asked with a slight smile.

Andoriel laughed. “No, just doesn't see the need in arriving to things earlier when he could come later.”

When they returned to Orzammar, Andoriel and Felassan went their own ways. Briala looked for Celene, so she could ensure that she was not missed for too long. She found Celene and Michel in one of the rooms that Queen Aeducan had given them. Celene looked up from a book she was thumbing through. 

“Where were you?” Celene asked.

“Exploring Orzammar,” Briala explained. “I may do that if I so choose. We are no longer in your Palace.” her stomach soured the longer she was there, and she found she couldn't abide being in Celene's presence for long.

Celene looked stricken. “I suppose that is true,” she said in a quiet voice.

Briala pursed her lips, and very deliberately turned her back on Celene. Celene watched her go, her expression unreadable.

Michel watched Briala leave as well, with a sour look on his face. “She is up to something, I am sure of it, My Lady.” he told Celene. 

“Perhaps,” Celene said. She stood up and followed Briala.

“This meeting of the Dalish, where is it being held?” Celene asked, catching up with the darker woman.

Briala shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. 

“Why not?” 

“They won’t ally with you. Andoriel even told you.” 

Celene frowned. “They are foolish,” she said. “They would cling to half-remembered legends and stories, hiding out in their forests. They pay no heed to what happens now.”

Briala looked away, her jaw clenched. “I don’t know that you would know,” Briala said. “And they would not trust you in any case.”

“No?”

“Not when you burned one of your own cities.”

“Briala--”

“Say it was for your empire if you wish,” Briala snapped. “That does not change the fact of it.”

“No,” Celene sighed. “Perhaps it does not.”

“And what does Queen Aeducan think?”

“Excuse me?”

“What did Queen Aeducan think, of you burning Halam'shiral?”

“I did not feel that it was something I needed to tell her,” Celene said. 

“Ah. Of course not.” Briala sneered and stalked away. 

Once Andoriel was certain that Briala and Felassan were settled in Orzammar again, she returned to the Brecelian. There she met Keeper Lanaya, Keeper Dhaiveira, and the Prince-Consort. Dhaiveira was Keeper of Clan Eirethelu, a dark-haired man who was unique amidst the Keepers in that he wore no vallaslin.

The fact that Clan Eirethelu gave its members the choice to bear vallaslin rather than have it be mandatory was just one of the things that set them apart from other Dalish. Clan Eirethelu was a very curious Clan with very unique beliefs, and was generally disliked among the Coalition. However, they had come out of a self-imposed seclusion during the Blight to ally with the Wardens, and as such, they were considered an allegiant Clan. 

“Ambassador Andoriel,” Dhaiveira said. He had a soft, deep voice, and an odd accent that resembled a backwater Ferelden one. “I am to understand you’ve come across a most unusual person.”

Andoriel inclined her head. “A man who calls himself Felassan,” she said. “He’s a strong link between the western Clans and the western Alienages—however he refuses to give a Clan name. I think it’s possible his Clan may align more with...your beliefs...than the majority of those of the Dalish.”

“Do you, perhaps, have a lost member?” Lanaya asked. “Dark hair, violet eyes, yellow vallaslin?”

Dhaiveira shook his head. “No one such as that,” he said. “I would have to meet him in order to form a judgment. Are you concerned about him?”

“Only in...a passing manner,” Lanaya said. “You must admit, anyone who goes by the name ‘Felassan’ among the Dalish is certainly an individual worth watching.”

“His demeanor is somewhat concerning,” Zevran pointed out.

“How so?” Dhaiveira asked.

“He claims to be from a Clan he refuses to name,” Zevran explained, and Dhaiveira raised his eyebrows. “And by all accounts, appears to have spent his life entirely as a mage or hunter in the forest. Yet his bears himself more carefully than Briala, who has long been in the midst of the Orlesian court.”

“That is rather odd,” Dhaiveira agreed. “But surely the way a man might carry himself if nothing to be suspicious of.” he frowned. “What concerns me is the lack of a Clan name.”

“We thought so as well,” Lanaya said. “He is quite happy to bring Briala to try and ally Halam'shiral with us, but refuses to put forward a Clan name of his own.” 

Dhaiveira's expression grew darker. “So he encourages his friend to action while holding back on his own,” he said. “How strange.”

“Will you speak with him?” Lanaya asked.

Dhaiveira nodded. “I shall.”

The next time Briala and Felassan returned to the Brecelian, Keeper Dhaiveira sought Felassan out.

“I am Keeper Dhaiveira Eirethelu, of Clan Eirethelu,” Dhaiveira said. 

“Ambassador Briala,” said Briala.

“Felassan,” Felassan inclined his head in greeting. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” Dhaiveira nodded at Briala. “But I am here specifically to speak to you friend.”

“Felassan?” Felassan and Briala glanced at each other. “Why?” Briala's eyes narrowed.

Dhaiveira looked at Felassan. “I understand you have given no Clan name,” he said.

Felassan shrugged. “Most people would not like to meet my Clan.”

“And most would not like to meet mine either. However, my Clan is well-known to the Coalition, even if not well-liked.”

Felassan peered at Dhaiveira. “Why are they not liked?”

Dhaiveira tilted his head, examining Felassan with dark gray eyes. He touched his bare cheek. “I am surprised you did not notice before.”

“Oh.” Felassan blinked. “Yes, I suppose that would be unusual.”

“Does your Clan practice what mine does? Give the option?”

“...yes,” Felassan said after a moment.

“So I suspect your Clan and mine align in many beliefs. Tell me, Felassan, what does your Clan think of Fen’harel?”

“What does yours?”

“The Dread Wolf is a force like a storm. Not good, or bad. A neutral member in the pantheon of the Creators and the Forgotten Ones.”

Felassan considered that. “That is far more favorable than how most Dalish view him.”

“Indeed it is. That is one reason we are not well-regarded.” 

“And other reasons?”

“Is that not enough?” he tilted his head to the other side, and his movements put one in mind of a bird. “Felassan. If you do not tell us your Clan name, we cannot ally with them.”

“And do you want to?”

“Of course.”

Felassan sighed. “I am afraid I still cannot grant your request,”

“Why is that?” 

“I worry that they would not be safe, were they to be uncovered. I have not had contact with them in some time—I am not certain that they would approve of allying with you.” 

“Then why are you here?”

“I am here because Briala is here.”

Dhaiveira nodded, and his eyes slid to Briala. “I see. It is good you have such a loyal friend,” he told her. 

“Thank you,” Briala said, her expression icy. “Did you need anything else?”

“Many members of my Clan have been quite valuable in going to cities hostile to the Dalish. Many other Clans do not like to admit it, but this practice,” he tapped his bare cheek again. “Is very useful. However, none of us speak Orlesian, which would be a great detriment. Would you or any of your people be willing to teach us?”

Briala blinked, softening somewhat. “I believe some would,” she said after a moment. “I can't organize anything like that at the moment, though.”

Dhaiveira nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Dareth shiral—I will see both of you at the meeting, I hope?”

“Yes, of course,” Briala said. Felassan merely nodded. 

Dhaiveira left them then, and Briala turned to Felassan, who stared after Dhaiveira with a pensive expression.

“What was that about?” Briala asked. 

“I believe our hosts may have some concerns about me,' he said. 

“What did he mean, about Fen'harel? Why wouldn't people like his Clan?” 

“His beliefs are very different from other Dalish beliefs,” Felassan explained. “Most Clans fear Fen'harel. To consider him neutral is...blasphemous.”

“And what about his vallaslin?”

“That was very strange, too,” Felassan said, narrowing his eyes. “I suppose his Clan doesn't require it. That, also, would be blasphemous by Dalish standards.”

“So why didn't you tell him your Clan name?” Briala frowned. “ _I_ don't even know your Clan name.”

“And I'll tell you the same thing I told him, da'len,” he said. “It would be dangerous for them.”

“Why?”

Felassan smiled. “No matter what the good Keeper thinks, my Clan is not like the other Dalish.”

Briala narrowed her eyes. “If you say so,” she said.


	5. Abreuve Nos Sillons

Dhaiveira returned to Lanaya, Andoriel, and Zevran.

“He is not dangerous,” Dhaiveira said. “But he _is_ suspicious.”

Lanaya closed her eyes. “A spy?”

“But a spy for whom? Hardly the Chantry or the Templars. He is a mage, his vallaslin quite authentic.”

“And he isn’t one of yours.”

Dhaiveira shook his head. “No. Not ours.”

“Andoriel?” Lanaya asked.

“Nothing suspicious that I could tell,” Andoriel said, pursing her lips. “The magic around him is...strange, and very strong, but nothing too out of the ordinary.”

“Your Majesty?”

“He vanishes at odd times,” Zevran said, tapping the finger of one hand on the back of the other. “He worryingly good at eluding watchers. There are several periods we have no idea what he was doing.”

They all looked at each other.

“I would suggest the dreamwalker from Clan Tualsalis look in his dreams,” Zevran said. “This becomes more concerning with each passing hour.” 

Lanaya frowned. “I don’t know...”

“He hardly has to go rooting around in his head,” Zevran said. “All he has to do is get near his dreams and see if there’s anything to worry about.”

Lanaya bit her lip. “Keeper Merrill should be arriving soon...”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Andoriel said. “If the ive’an’vire’lan--”

“Feynriel.”

“If Feynriel is going to be here, he’s going to be near everyone’s dreams anyway,” she said with a shrug. 

Lanaya pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll ask him,” she said. “I can't say Keeper Merrill will approve, though.”

It was the day before the meeting, and Feynriel was in the Fade. 

Merrill had gotten a request to bring Feynriel to the meeting, so the both of them traveled to the Brecelian together. 

When they arrived, Lanaya had asked him to look about the dreams of an elf she found suspicious, and Feynriel had agreed, though reluctantly. The push had really been how Keeper Dhaiveira, the Panalanvinte ambassador, and the Prince-Consort were _all_ suspicious of this person, enough to make Merrill nervous. 

Feynriel and Merrill both knew of Corypheus, and Fen'harel. They both knew to be careful, and this certainly seemed like something worth looking into.

So, Feynriel had gone to sleep, and started looking around.

The minds around Feynriel were all more-or-less normal. The Brecelian was full of ghosts and the forgotten memories of events long past, as well as the dreams of the living. 

However, there was one thing that stood out. 

There was a dream with a wall around it. It rather resembled the wall Feynriel had built around his own mind, to keep out intruders and to prevent himself from falling out into the Fade by accident.

This wall was a little different, however. Slippery as glass, a strange point of solidity in the haziness of the Fade. 

“Why are you here?” came a murmuring voice from behind the wall.

In anyone else, the sudden voice would have made them jump. However, Feynriel did not, long practice enabling him to keep calm. “I was curious,” Feynriel said.

“Why?”

“You’re different.”

“Everyone is different.”

“Not like how you are.”

“I suppose not. What do you want?” 

“Only to know who you are.”

The mind behind the wall chuckled. “Oh, da’len,” it said. “Good luck.”

Then the wall closed itself off and did not respond anymore. Feynriel blinked, and after a moment of observing the wall, he returned to himself and awoke. He didn't want to use the force necessary to push past the wall, for fear of damaging the mind it belonged to. He immediately went to Lanaya and the others.

“There’s a wall around his mind,” Feynriel said. “He isn’t a somniari, but he was taught by one.”

“How can you tell?” Andoriel asked.

“The wall is—intentional,” Feynriel said, furrowing his brow. “And he asked me questions when I came close.” he shook his head. “If I'd tried to get into his mind, it would have taken a lot of force,” he explained. “I might have hurt him.”

Merrill pursed her lips. “You're sure he isn't another dreamwalker?” she asked.

“Positive. I'd know if I felt another one, and he isn't.”

“Not a somniari, but taught by one,” Dhaiveira hummed to himself. “Fascinating.”

“What does this mean, then?” Feynriel said, looking back and forth between the Keepers.

Lanaya shook her head. “We’ll watch him,” she said. “And try and keep him here, to make sure he doesn’t slip out from under our noses.”

“What do you think he's doing here?”

“I couldn’t say,” Lanaya said. 

“Spying, of course,” the Prince-Consort said. “But why? That I have no idea.” 

“What do we do?” Feynriel asked.

“We watch him, naturally,” the Prince-Consort said with a wide and dangerous smile.

The day of the meeting, Andoriel introduced Felassan and Briala to Keeper Merrill. 

Keeper Merrill smiled when she met them. She was very tall for an elf, with black hair tied back in a short braid. She had a soft face and pale olive skin, her large eyes very green. 

“Felassan,” Keeper Merrill said, looking at him. “’The slow arrow?’”

Felassan inclined his head.

“Who would name their son after the Dread Wolf’s tricks?” she asked him. Briala frowned.

“My Clan does not subscribe to the same beliefs about Fen’harel that other Clans do,” Felassan explained.

“No?” Merrill raised her eyebrows. “I’ve found—in ruins, and the Crossroads, you see, that some people believe different things about Fen’harel.”

“Have you found that indeed?”

“Yes. Could you tell me, how does your Clan’s beliefs differ from those of other Clans? I would so like to hear about it.”

“We...” Felassan faltered. “We believe he was no evil villain. A trickster. A warrior. a...necessary force for change.”

Merrill tilted her head to one side. She smiled. “That’s quite an interesting way of looking at it,” she said. “What does your Clan say about the Creators? The Forgotten ones?”

“They fought a great deal,” Felassan said. “So much so that they hurt the People, who were forgotten in their wars. Fen’harel wanted to stop them, but he made a mistake, and that's why they're locked away.”

“Hm,” Merrill tilted her head back. “That’s interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Of course! History and legend are fascinating.”

Her gaze was penetrating, her bright green eyes raking over Felassan with fascination. She turned to Briala as if only just realizing she was there. “Oh, I’m sorry—here I am, talking just with your friend, instead of you. That’s rather rude, ir abelas.”

Briala just nodded. 

“I've never been to Halam'shiral, though I've heard it's beautiful,” Merrill said. “I lived in the Kirkwall Alienage for quite some time. What is your Hahren like?” 

“She--” Briala faltered. “I do not know. The last Hahren is most likely dead.”

Merrill’s face fell. “Oh no,” she said. “What happened?”

“Empress Celene happened,” Andoriel growled.

Merrill’s expression grew dark. “I see,” she said. “Well, Ambassador, I'm sure we'll do whatever we can to help,” she assured Briala.

“Thank you, Keeper,” Briala said. She hesitated, then added “Keeper Dhaiveira mentioned something about how his people are—less recognizable in Dalish-hostile cities--”

“Oh, you met Keeper Dhaiveira?” Merrill looked pleased. “Such a nice man, isn't he?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Merrill nodded. “Yes, I bet his people could help yours quite a bit,” she said. “It's so hard to get anywhere near the cities in Orlais...”

“I've found that that's in part because local Clans simply don't try,” Felassan said lightly.

Merrill laughed. “Well, maybe,” she said. “But that's certainly not the case with us!” the sound of a horn called, and Merrill glanced over her shoulder. “Come on,” she said. “The meeting's starting.”

They went to a large clearing, where all the various ambassadors and Keepers were gathered. Briala recognized a large number of the ambassadors, but only a few of the Keepers. The Prince-Consort was there, and he nodded at Briala when he saw her. Keeper Lanaya stood on an enormous treestump and called for order, and the crowd quieted.

There was a long list of names as each representative was introduced. Many of the Dalish raised their eyebrows when Felassan's name was called. When Briala's was, many of the Dalish and the Alienage representatives looked pleased, but several Keepers looked distinctly unhappy. 

As soon as the introductions were finished, the ruckus began almost immediately, and Briala was a bit surprised. Orlesian politics, while dangerous and tricky, were not nearly so...loud. 

There was chatter in Dalish and in Common about the Chantry, the eluvians, Orlais, magic, Kirkwall, Orzammar—eventually, the discussion came to a reasonable level, and each person started giving others time to talk.

“What does any of this nonsense with the Chantry matter?” Keeper Adarian demanded. “There is that darkspawn from the Vimmarks, and Fen’harel--”

“Oh, you and your bloody Fen’harel!” Ambassador Dysla rolled her eyes. “What have any of you heard? A few mages had some bad dreams about wolves?”

“Keeper Zathrian’s last words were a warning about wolves,” Lanaya snapped. “Not to mention the spirits speaking of the white wolf--”

“Wolves are bloody dangerous, Fen’harel or no!” the ambassador said. “Who says it means that old legend?”

“Well pardon me, but I don’t see any spirits or demons muttering about your Maker lately, have you?” Keeper Adarian snapped. “Look, the fact is that the spirits have been speaking the name—doesn't that worry you at all?”

“Many mages have also made note of how the Fade deals in symbolism,” Ambassador Ile pushed his spectacles up on his long nose. “It's possible that they are just reflecting something we are transmitting to them. And this Fen’harel, if he is even real, and if he can affect the world, who is to say he is as dangerous as you believe? Keeper Merrill, you yourself have come across many historical records in the Crossroads that argue a different view than Dalish myth.”

“That’s true,” Merrill looked troubled. 

“And who is to say that isn’t cultist propaganda?” Keeper Nellas said. “We simply have no context—it’s all too cursed old! I say, we go by what we’ve always known—and what common sense says, which is that a bloody great wolf is dangerous either way.”

“Finally, someone speaks some sense,” Ambassador Dysla said. “Who cares how real he is? A huge wolf is a problem no matter what.”

“That’s not the point,” the Keeper growled. 

“And who is to say your view is the correct one?” Keeper Dhaiveira said, his dark gray eyes placid. “Perhaps it will not be such a bad thing.”

“I don’t think it matters!” Ambassador Jathann exclaimed. “Whether your Fen’harel is real or not, we have an actual problem! Prince-Consort--?”

“Orlais is in turmoil,” the Prince-Consort said. “Their Empress has sought shelter in Orzammar. I am quite certain that without her influence, the Chantry will collapse in on itself, as we feared.” 

Adarian rolled his eyes, but the other representatives began to mutter amongst themselves. 

The Prince-Consort continued “We have not received word from the Chantry in some months. However, the last we knew, according to the Nightingale, the Divine was still attempting to work around Lord Seeker Lambert--”

Several sighs and disapproving noises from the crowd were heard.

“--and as such, has refused any alliance or mutual assistance agreement between the Chantry and Orzammar.”

“Which, of course, limits us,” Lanaya said.

The Prince-Consort inclined his head. 

“What about the Nightingale?” Ambassador Ile asked. “Even if the Divine doesn't have an alliance with Orzammar, surely she and her sources could come to some agreement with the Queen--?”

“The Nightingale, when last we spoke, worried about spies in her own network,” the Prince-Consort said. “The Divine has gone as far as to cut off contact with King Alistair and Queen Anora except in the most cursory of communications, and of course Kirkwall--”

“Is completely overtaken by Chantry personnel sympathetic to Lambert,” Merrill said. Her tone was much more businesslike than it had been when she'd been speaking with Briala and Felassan. “That would compromise a large part of the Free Marches, and the closeness to Ferelden compromises them as well.”

The Prince-Consort nodded. “King Alistair and Queen Anora have limited their relations with us as well,” he said. “We have reached out to them, but they feel that our sympathy towards the Wardens and the Dalish make us a liability rather than an ally.” 

“A liability!” Lanaya seemed shocked. “But the Grand Enchanter--”

“Busy with the dissolution of the College of Enchanters,” the Prince-Consort sighed. “We haven't heard from her in months, either.”

“Ambassador Briala,” Ambassador Dysla spoke up, and Briala glanced up, startled. “You're the first Orlesian representative we have. Do you have any information for us that might help?”

Briala considered. “Celene is sheltered in Orzammar,” she said, and the Prince-Consort inclined his head. “We need to place her back on the throne.”

Adarian snorted. “That city-burning villainess?” he rolled his eyes. “I _don't_ think so.”

“Grand-Duke Gaspard would plunge Orlais into war again,” Briala said. “If Celene were killed, either the Duke would take the throne and attempt to attack Ferelden, or his claim would be challenged by any number of family. He is Celene's only direct heir, but there are enough nobles sympathetic to Celene that they would cause problems.”

“How does he fall on the issue of the Chantry?” said Ambassador Cohen, speaking up for the first time. 

“Ah...” Briala frowned. “He does not consider it of grave importance. It's possible he would ignore the issue entirely in favor of attempting conquest.”

There was a collective intake of breath.

“Well, we cannot let that stand,” Ambassador Cohen said.

“And what are we meant to do about it, exactly?” Adarian demanded.

“Celene wanted to ally with the Dalish--” Briala started.

All Dalish parties present frowned.

“Ridiculous,” Keeper Nellas said, putting up a hand. “Out of the question.”

Briala scowled. “If Gaspard takes the throne, the elves of Orlais will suffer!” she said.

“And yet, it was Celene, not Gaspard, who torched Halam’shiral,” the Prince-Consort’s words were light, but it was clear he was deadly serious.

The Alienage ambassadors all looked varying degrees of shocked and horrified, and the Keepers grim. 

Briala glared at the Prince-Consort. “Yes,” she said. “But it hardly matters. Gaspard is worse.”

“From where I’m sitting, they look the same,” Keeper Adarian said, folding his arms. 

“Gaspard is the more aggressive one,” Briala insisted. “And if he were to gain the throne, the entire area would be destabilized. He is already trying a civil war! It would only grow _worse_ if he were to become Emperor! He would attack the Dales, simply for your existence!”

“And that, of course, would cause more problems,” Keeper Dhaveira murmured. 

“Well, it looks like the solution is to get this idiot Gaspard out of the way, and then put Celene back on her throne,” Adarian said. “We don’t need to bloody well _ally_ with her.”

“Why not?” Briala demanded. “Your pride? Your blood? Do you not care about the cities of Orlais?”

“Think who you’re speaking to, girl,” Ambassador Jathann snapped. “Before my Alienage allied with the Coalition, we were just as bad off as your Orlesian cities. This woman lit one of her own cities on fire! Does that seem like someone we should ally with?” 

“I still say this nonsense is just a distraction!” Keeper Adarian said. “Just get someone to bump off Gaspard, then we can get back to what actually matters!”

“Not Fen’harel _again_ ,” Dysla groaned. 

“Him, _and_ the darkspawn,” Adarian snapped. “Keeper Merrill--”

“I do have one question,” Felassan interrupted.

All eyes turned to Felassan.

“What makes you think Fen’harel is returning at all? I have heard several mentions and yet I am unsure why this is so important to you.”

“Ah, yes,” Lanaya raised her eyebrows. “’Felassan’. The slow arrow.”

The other Keepers began to mutter amongst themselves. 

“Slow arrow,” the Gwaren ambassador hummed. “Someone will have to refresh my memory on that reference.’

“A story of Fen’harel,” Lanaya explained. “A myth about his trickery, and how praying to him for help is not necessarily helpful.” she stared at Felassan. “A strange name to have.”

Felassan met her eyes. “Perhaps in your Clans,” he said. “Not in mine.” 

Keeper Dhaivera steepled his fingers. “And not necessarily in mine either,” he said. “But we cannot ignore the signs.”

“Tell me, what signs have you seen?”

They all looked at him, eyes narrowed. Dhaivera leaned forward, fascinated. 

“The first signs were, perhaps, during the Blight,” the Prince-Consort said, and Lanaya nodded in agreement. “Keeper Zathrian, the Lady of the Forest, and a large manner of spirits and ghosts all making mention of the same thing—wolves.” he shrugged. “Personally, I do not believe it is your Fen'harel, but such a ubiquitous turn of phrase from so many different sources is not something to be discounted.”

“You said the first signs,” Felassan said. “What others?”

Merrill met Felassan's eyes. “One of the mages of my Clan, an ive’an’vire’lan called Feynriel, has seen many suspicious things in his dreams.”

“A somniari?” Felassan raised his eyebrows.

Merrill inclined her head, her green eyes locked on Felassan's violet ones. 

“What has he seen?” 

“Spirits saying strange things, speaking of someone who is coming. He has heard Fen'harel's name mentioned before.”

“Any mage will tell you how many strange things the spirits have been saying of late,” Lanaya said. “Have you not heard them speaking of the white wolf?”

“Of course,” Felassan agreed. “But why do you think it's Fen'harel, and not your own thoughts reflected back at you?”

“I don't,” Dysla snorted. “I think it's something nasty all the same, though.”

Felassan's shoulders relaxed, just marginally.

“The name has come up too many times to be merely coincidence.” Adarian said with a scowl.

“Or, it is your own thoughts acting upon the Fade,” Felassan suggested. “Once you see a pattern, the spirits will reflect the pattern back.”

“Exactly so!” Dysla said. 

“There’s also Corypheus...” Merrill added.

“What is Corypheus?” Briala asked.

“A darkspawn Keeper Merrill and Lady Hawke encountered in the Vimmarks,” Lanaya explained, looking to Merrill for confirmation. “Some sort of intelligent darkspawn, like the Architect the Warden-Commander found under Amaranthine.”

“He spoke about something that sounded like Fen’harel,” Merrill said. 

Felassan’s expression was carefully neutral. “And why do you say his return—or the arrival of something strange and large and magical—is more important than more...earthly concerns?”

Adarian narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice dry. “The lord of tricksters coming back to bother the People again might be of _some_ slight note.”

“I still say it’s not your Dread Wolf,” Dysla said. “What of another darkspawn thing? That Corypheus reached out in dreams. Or another Old God?”

“Who else is a wolf?” Adarian demanded. “Who else is called 'Dread Wolf?' In any case, something that powerful, whatever it is, coming to the world? That isn’t the slightest bit of concern?” 

“And what are we supposed to do about it?” Dysla demanded. 

“Wrangle the College and the Wardens,” Adarian said. “Queen Aeducan’s already looking out for whatever it is—I’m sure King Alistair could be warned as well. We need to focus on Fen’harel, or whatever it is, as well as that intelligent darkspawn. This business with the Chantry is an utter distraction.” 

“Oh, of course _you’d_ say that,” Ambassador Jathann rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to live anywhere near a Chantry-controlled area, do you?”

“Neither would you, if you would do the smart thing and just evacuate!”

“I can't just drag almost a thousand people out of their homes!” Jathann snapped. “We can't all be fortunate enough to be able to wander around the Crossroads forever!”

“And you can't afford to live your lives in places where your children are snatched up by Templars!” Adarian snapped. 

“Everyone, please!” Lanaya raised her hands for quiet. “Adarian, we all know of your feelings on the matter. We have decided that the evacuation of the Alienages is not possible at this time.”

Adarian folded his arms and sat back, looking extremely displeased. 

“I'm sorry, what are you speaking of?” Briala asked.

“Alienages and human cities are notoriously dangerous for elvhen,” Adarian explained. “And with this business with the Chantry and Fen'harel--”

Ambassador Dysla snorted, but Adarian plowed on, ignoring her. 

“--it would only make sense to move your people away from the cities, and into safer areas, such as the Crossroads, the Brecelian, or Orzammar. We're already working on the Kirkwall Alienage--”

“Kirkwall is a special case and you know it,” Ambassador Dysla said. 

“You know how large the Crossroads are, they could hold everyone from every Alienage there is!” Adarian exclaimed. 

“And you also know how many Alienages have full-blooded humans as residents!” Dysla exclaimed. “Humans can't stay in the Crossroads that long! What, should they just abandon their elvhen families?”

“Well...”

“Enough!” Lanaya exclaimed. “Everyone, practical solutions, _please_.”

“Removing this Gaspard and replacing Celene as Empress seems to be a priority,” the Prince-Consort said. “And one that is able to be accomplished.”

Briala nodded. “That makes sense,” she agreed. “And what of Celene's hope for alliance...?”

There was an outpouring of derisive noise, and again Lanaya had to call for silence.

“Briala,” Lanaya said when everything was sufficiently quiet. “We will offer our assistance to Halam’shiral. If you would permit it, we would install an eluvian somewhere in your city or near it—that is, Keeper Merrill…?”

“I’d need to find and restore one close by,” Merrill said. “But I’m sure I could find one.”

Lanaya nodded. “You will have our assistance should you need it,” she said. “And if you will contact those of the western Alienages, we would be very grateful. But,” she said when Briala opened her mouth. “We will not ally with Celene. That is utterly out of the question.”

“Then what good are you?” Briala demanded. 

“Enough good to stop our people dying of cold in the streets,” Ambassador Cohen said quietly.

“And to send us food when we need it,” Jathann added.

“And to stop our mages getting snapped up by Templars,” Ambassador Dysla said. 

“But that is all just temporary!” Briala insisted. “Surely allying with Celene will help in the long run--”

“Unless you have something that will let us blackmail her into returning the lands of the Dales to us, I don't think so,” Adarian said. 

“Ambassador, you've said yourself that she burned down one of her own cities precisely because of elvhen unrest,” Lanaya said softly. “Even if we did not have moral compunctions against it, that is one of the most unreliable allies to have. Would you trust a general who intentionally attacked his own army with artillery?”

“...no,” Briala admitted with a sigh. 

“Then please, join with us. Your people will be our people.”

Briala glanced at Felassan, who was watching the proceedings with great interest. They met eyes and Felassan smiled.

Briala took a deep breath. “We will join with you,” she said.

Back in Orzammar, Celene worried.

“Where is Briala?” Celene muttered to herself.

“And that mage friend of hers,” Michel said. “And the...Prince-Consort,” his face soured. “I should think a Queen would be above that. Even a dwarven Queen.”

Celene glanced at him. “I suppose their marriage must be an advantage in some way,” she said. “Still. They doted on each other.”

Michel shrugged. “That still does not answer the question of where he's been vanishing to.”

“He has his own business, I assume.”

Michel's lip curled. “I am sure.”

“Empress.” Queen Aeducan appeared at the door.

Michel and Celene got to their feet. “Queen Aeducan. Is there something the matter?” Celene asked.

“Gaspard is at the gates,” Queen Aeducan said.

The blood left Celene's face. “Gaspard is here?” Celene said.

Queen Aeducan nodded. “Not in the city,” she clarified. “You are a guest of our kingdom, and it would hardly be appropriate to bring in a man that causes you such distress.”

“My thanks,” Celene said. “What has he said?”

“He desires to see you, presumably to kill you.”

Celene considered that. “And what have you decided?”

“We wished to know what you wanted before we dealt with him.”

“If you would...please, Majesty, ask him how it is possible to resolve this. I will not step down from my throne simply because he wishes, and he may not be permitted to kill me.”

Queen Aeducan inclined her head, and sent for a messenger. The messenger returned quickly, with a formal letter written on heavy parchment. Queen Aeducan opened the letter and scanned it quickly.

“Gaspard says that he will...duel you for control of the throne?” Queen Aeducan raised an eyebrow. 

Michel and Celene exchanged a look.

“Of course,” Celene murmured.

Queen Aeducan looked at her. “What do you wish us to do?”

“We will duel him, of course.”

Queen Aeducan raised her other eyebrow. “You need not do that.”

Celene sighed. “I can only guess at how the country is faring without me,” she said, rubbing her temples. “No, Your Majesty, I must do this. Michel?”

“I am here, my lady.”

“Michel,” Celene put her hands on his shoulders. “If you do this, I care not for your blood. I will be in your debt until the end of time.”

Michel nodded. 

“You would send him to be your proxy?” Queen Aeducan looked doubtful.

Celene nodded. 

“Hm. That is not how things are done here, but if it is what you wish...”

“It is.”

“Then go. We will bring Gaspard to you.” Queen Aeducan swept out of the hall. Within an hour, Gaspard and Celene were in a room reserved for ceremonial duels. The chamber was absolutely enormous, and was empty but for Celene, Gaspard, their proxies, and Queen Aeducan and her guards.

Gaspard stood at the other end of the chamber. He looked battered and worn, but he stood straight-backed as he looked at her. “And here you are,” he said.

Celene nodded. “Here I am.” she looked at Gaspard, noted his armor's worn state. “Why are you here, and not commanding your army?”

“I cannot take the risk that you would return.”

“I hope, at least, your retain contact with them. Else when I do return, they will have been running themselves.”

Gaspard smirked. “They know better than that. They have their orders.”

Celene frowned. “You know military men better than I, yet even I know that they will not be without a leader forever.”

Gaspard's expression soured. “Come,” he said. “Let us end this. I would be rid of you.”

Michel stepped forward.

“This is my Champion.” Celene said. “Where is yours?”

A woman in light leather armor, wielding a pair of wicked daggers, stepped in front of Gaspard.

Celene inclined her head. “I see.”

The proxies approached each other. The fight was long, very long, an hour in total, but finally, Michel’s blade was against his opponent’s throat. 

He looked up at Gaspard, who looked at Celene. He bowed his head. “I submit to your rule,” he said.

Celene tilted her head up. “I accept your submission. But you are an enemy of the Empire. As such, you are sentenced to death.”

Gaspard looked sour, but other than that, hardly reacted.

“Guards?” Queen Aeducan said. “Do something with him,” she flicked her fingers in a dismissive way, and the guards took Gaspard away. They took Gaspard's champion as well.

Celene turned to Queen Aeducan. “Where is Briala?” she asked. “I must return to Val Royeaux, but I do not wish to return without her.”

“She meets privately with some of the Coalition. My lord husband is with her, as well as Ambassador Panalanvinte and Ambassador Felassan. You may wait for her return if you wish, but I suggest you return to Val Royeaux instead.” Queen Aeducan’s eyes flashed. “Things in your capital are not well.”

Celene refrained from startling at this news. “How do you know?”

“We have our own sources. Without you, the Chantry is starting to fall to pieces. You should return, before you have another war on your hands.”

Despite herself, Celene went pale.

“Ambassador Briala will return to you if she wishes. We do not hold her.”

“How am I to know that?”

“You cannot. As I said, you may stay here until she returns. We suggest you leave, but we will not force you.”

Celene inclined her head. “Then we will remain until she returns.”

“Very good.”

When the meeting broke up, Felassan and Briala retreated to a more secluded area of the ruins and spoke quietly, when Lanaya, Andoriel, the Prince-Consort, and several of the other Keepers confronted them.

“Is something wrong?” Briala asked, eyes flicking from one Keeper to another.

“Not with you,” Lanaya said. “With him.” she nodded towards Felassan.

Briala looked at Felassan. “What’s wrong?” 

“You refuse to tell us your Clan name, your use-name is one of the Dread Wolf’s tricks, and, of course...”

Blond Feynriel came forward. “There’s a wall around your mind.”

“None of these are crimes, “ Felassan said. “Or so I could reasonably assume.”

“You looked in his mind?” Briala demanded, aghast.

“Not in,” Feynriel clarified. “Around. When you’re a dreamer who sleeps around other people, that’s something that happens.”

“Ah,” Felassan looked fascinated. “ _You’re_ the dreamer.”

Feynriel nodded.

“So,” Andoriel said, and put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell us who you are, slow arrow.” 

Felassan raised his eyebrows. “Someone who suggests you not press this issue.”

“Why?”

“It is rude to impose, is it not?”

“Yes. It is.” she narrowed her eyes.

 

"Ambassador,” Briala said in a warning tone.

“Briala.” 

“Stop.”

“I don’t think so,” Andoriel said “Not until he tells us who he is.”

“Believe me, da’len,” Felassan said with a smile. “You would not wish to meet my Clan.”

“And why is that?”

“That is rather the question, is it not?”

With that, he vanished, leaving Andoriel holding empty air.

Briala stared at the place where Felassan had been. 

“So,” Zevran brushed off his tunic. “We can be certain that that was out of the ordinary, yes?”

“The Dread Wolf is coming,” Andoriel said.

“He may already be here,” Merrill said, expression troubled. 

“The Dread Wolf?” Briala exclaimed. “What has that to do with this? You cornered him--”

“’Felassan,’” Andoriel said. “’Slow arrow.’ It is obvious.”

“Obvious how? All you have is a great load of—nonsense and magical trickery!”

“Briala,” Keeper Dhaiveira looked at her. “Something is coming. We cannot avoid it.”

“How do you know?”

“There’ve been warnings,” Merrill explained. “Signs...dreams. He’s coming. Felassan is probably one of his soldiers.”

“But...” Briala stared after him. “He helped us. And he...he doesn’t act like you say Fen’harel acts.”

“And that is very odd,” Andoriel said.

“What have I been saying this whole time?” Dhaiveira said. “Things are not as you have believed them to be.”

“Or it is a larger trick,” Andoriel argued. 

“We must watch for him in the future,” Lanaya said. “Merrill? What did you think?”

“He felt very strange,” Merrill said. “But not dangerous.”

“He definitely felt dangerous,” Feynriel said. “Just not towards us.”

“Then towards who?”

Feynriel shrugged. 

“What are you going to do now?” Briala asked, her eyes narrowed. 

“The question is rather, what are _you_ going to do now?” Lanaya asked.

“I need to return to Celene,” Briala said. “I need to keep an eye on her, clearly.”

“You will inform us if she does anything untoward?” Lanaya asked.

Briala considered, then inclined her head. “And you? You will tell me more of this...Fen'harel business?”

“If we can. If we learn more.”

“And what will you do if you see Felassan again?”

“For your sake, we will inform you if we see him,” Lanaya said. “You are his friend. Truthfully, he is likely your responsibility.”

Briala laughed. “He is no one's responsibility.” no one else seemed to be as amused as she was, so she simply nodded. “As you will,” she said. “I am holding you to your end of the bargain.”

“We would expect no less.”

Briala returned to find Celene packing her sparse things.

“Briala,” Celene said.

“Your Majesty,” Briala inclined her head. 

“Gaspard has been dealt with.”

“That is good to hear.”

“What did you speak of, with the Coalition?”

“Nothing important. They did not wish to give me what I wanted.”

“So they will not ally with Orlais either.”

Briala suppressed the urge to smile. “No. They will not.”

“Will you return with me?”

Briala considered. She did not want to return. Not to Halam’shiral, surely burned to the ground. Not to the Game, nor to the Palace, nor to Celene’s side. She wanted to stay here, or among her people. 

Of course, her people did not need her here. They needed her elsewhere. 

“I will return,” she said. “Someone must protect you, after all.”

Celene smiled.

The elf who named himself Felassan ran, as fast and as hard as if Anaris himself was on his heels. 

It had been his own fault. The People were clever, always clever, and these children were cleverer than he had anticipated.

In a way, he was strangely proud. He had thought them perhaps beyond aid, in need of a great shaking change. He had not cared for Clan Virnehn, or for what he had seen of the Dalish.

But this...this was different. The Prince-Consort and Queen Aeducan’s marriage, the Coalition, the way they worked together and made alliances—surely Fen’harel would be able to appreciate the importance of this.

After he had lost himself very thoroughly in the forest, he finally came to a stop.

Poor Briala. She was his friend, and he had left her in such a sudden way...she did not deserve that. He must do something to help her, soon.

Before then, however, he needed to speak with his general. He warded the clearing he had landed in, staving off any curious spirits or animals. Then he reached into the Veil, and pressed against it.

He was no natural somniari, and besides which, Fen’harel was not contacted easily, even by those with the gift. Even so, there were ways of getting around that.

Felassan closed his eyes, and felt the Fade encircle him, reaching out with drowsy arms. Immediately, something approached him. It was tired, very tired, so deeply asleep that it could only reach out and give him the faintest of acknowledgment. If Felassan wished to speak with the Dread Wolf, he would have to go to him. 

The Fade bent around him, and he saw the image of the white wolf in the distance. He followed the wolf, as it darted just out of reach. Eventually, the wolf came to a halt, and when Felassan caught up to it, it vanished. 

The place he came to was mostly emotions, sleepy and inarticulate, faded dreams and plans, nothing more. More alert now, better able to hear and understand, but still asleep. He still slept so deeply that he had no face to show Felassan, only a tired acknowledgment, a vague welcome. 

Yet Felassan could still feel that strength, that watchful gaze and powerful magic. The wolf was sleeping, yes, but still very, very dangerous. 

Felassan sighed and touched one indistinct wall. The colors in the wall shifted and changed according to his touch, as did the emotions about him—recognition, thick and slow. Tell me, tell me, what have you seen? Pale threads of white excitement stirred the air, which Felassan took to be a good sign.

“Someone else repaired and activated the eluvians,” Felassan explained. “A marvel, truly! The spirit Thelhen summoned—they banished it, quick as you please.” he laughed. “Well, with a bit of help from me. Oh, you would have thought it funny, how the children fight amongst themselves.”

Confusion. Funny? What was funny about this?

“They—they are different than we thought,” Felassan tried his best to communicate to Fen’harel what he’d seen and felt, summoning images to the Fade that the somniari would be able to read. “I thought those haughty children in the forests were the only ones, but no, no—a historian, of all things, activated some part of the eluvian network, and she allied with the dwarves! The durghen’len, can you believe that?” 

Displeasure, more confusion. Do you forget what you are to do?

Felassan shook his head. “Of course not. But I think—I think they deserve a chance. We should find another way--”

Anger, raw and and red and forceful, flared and made Felassan’s head ache. Images came to his mind—the world, rotting and black, gangrenous, wrong, wrong, _wrong_ —my fault, _my fault_ \--

“Enough!” Felassan pushed back—he was by no means strong enough to keep such a powerful dreamer out of his head, and the sorrow and rage of Fen’harel was no small thing. However, the push startled the other presence, just enough for Felassan to pull back, away from the immediate area of influence. 

“They are doing something _new_ ,” Felassan insisted, pulling more memories from his mind and forcing them into the Fade, wanting his general to see, to understand. Briala, the Prince-Consort, the ambassadors, the Keepers--any memory that was constructive, any memory of the young People accomplishing something. “We can help them! Isn’t that what you wanted? The People to have a life of their own? That’s what they’re trying to build!”

A lack of comprehension. It was no use talking to Fen’harel when he was sunk so deeply into Uthenera. Even now, the anger remained, rank and dangerous, bending the Fade around Felassan.

Felassan backed away, shaking his head. “We’ll find another way,” he insisted. “I know it.”

Something lashed out at him, and Felassan tore himself out of the Fade--

He bolted upright with a gasp. His chest heaving, he got to his feet, looking around frantically, as if his general could have followed him out of the Fade. Of course not, not now, not here. 

His nose was bleeding. He wiped his face and began to pace, thinking. 

He had been trying to coax his general into waking for the better part of a decade now. Uthenera was a tricky thing. Felassan had woken on his own, easily enough, and he knew for a fact there were some priests and priestesses kicking around in some old Temples, but others, the general included, had a much harder time waking. It had always been so, even in the old days.

Fen’harel was angry. Perhaps he would be feeling betrayed. He had felt close to wakening, pressing closer and closer to consciousness, and Felassan was sure that he would awake soon. He would likely awake angry.

He would be disoriented, his body atrophied, and he wouldn’t be used to the weakening of magic that the Veil produced, but even a confused, weak Fen’harel was still dangerous. Perhaps far more so than normal. 

Felassan could already picture it—Fen’harel awakening angry, bereaved, confused, half-formed plans whirling in his mind, but all dangerous, destructive. He would have only the barest idea of what was happening, and if Felassan didn’t intervene, something would go terribly wrong. 

Fen’harel was, of course, endlessly resourceful.

Felassan had to find his general, and soon, before something terrible happened. He wiped the last of the blood from his face and began to walk, taking down his magical wards as he did so.

He hoped he would not be too late.


End file.
